


The Collector

by Aini_NuFire



Series: Catch Me When I Fall [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU Story, Angel Wings, Castiel Whump, Episode: s09e16 Blade Runners, Friendship, Gen, Hurt Castiel, Hurt/Comfort, Profound Bond, Season/Series 05, Team Free Will
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-06
Updated: 2016-02-06
Packaged: 2018-05-18 14:23:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 27,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5931628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aini_NuFire/pseuds/Aini_NuFire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU Season 5. When the Winchesters get a lead on the Colt, it brings them to an underground demon auction and a mysterious man with an impressive store of supernatural artifacts. But what happens when he not only doesn't want to give up a prized piece of his collection, but wants to add a certain angel to it?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Lead

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first fanfic I ever wrote back in July 2014, and I'm finally moving it over to Ao3. I had the idea after watching season 9's "Blade Runners," but decided to set it in season 5 because it's my favorite. Anyway, I was just getting my bearings in the fandom, so please don't judge this fic too harshly.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own the world of Supernatural or its characters.

“Seriously, nothing? No earthquakes, flash floods, locusts?”

“No, Dean.” Sam leaned away from his laptop and the online news articles he’d been scouring for the past two hours. Frankly, he was happy not to have found any mention of apocalyptic events occurring in the past couple days. Every time he did only served to drive the nail in deeper on his guilt.

Dean knocked back a swig of beer. “So, the Devil’s taking a siesta? Good on him.”

Sam shrugged. “I don’t know.” What he didn’t say was maybe Lucifer was working on something big, and that’s why he’d gone quiet. But speculation would do them no good, so Sam kept his worries to himself. Dean had enough on his shoulders, what with his little brother having loosed the Devil on the world and started the Apocalypse. Then there was the fact that the angels wanted Dean to kill Lucifer by agreeing to be a vessel for an archangel, and _that_ certainly wasn’t going to happen. So if they could take a moment to pretend the world wasn’t ending…

As though Fate had been waiting for just the moment when that thought entered Sam’s head, Dean’s cell phone rang.

“Hey, Cas,” his brother answered mildly.

Sam turned back to his research, thinking he’d missed something; the angel hardly ever called with good news.

Dean straightened. “Really? Okay, we’re in Elk Grove, Montana, Sunspot Motel room 123.”

Before he could even hang up, a swish of wings sent some napkins fluttering off the dinette table onto the floor.

“Hey, Cas,” Sam said, and leaned over to retrieve them. “What’s up?”

Castiel opened his mouth, but paused and his eyes did that squinting thing when he was trying to decode human vernacular.

“Cas has a lead on the Colt,” Dean jumped in before the angel could respond with something off the mark like “the sky,” or “the ceiling.”

Sam perked up. “Really?”

Castiel nodded, forgetting Sam’s original question and focusing on the matter at hand. “I have discovered that the Colt ended up at an underground auction and was sold to the highest bidder.”

Sam blinked. “An auction? So, the Colt is with some fanatic gun collector?”

“Not quite.” He did a customary eye sweep of the room’s peach and green striped wallpaper, beige bed covers, and the two empty bottles of booze sitting on the dresser that Dean had already consumed. The angel’s gaze lingered a moment on the beer before turning to note the one in Dean’s hand. He didn’t comment, however, but continued, “The patrons of these auctions are demons and other…beings. And the items for sale tend to be rare magical artifacts.”

Dean made a low noise of disbelief. “Why have we never heard of this before?”

Castiel cocked his head and frowned as though it were obvious. “The time and place of the auctions is a carefully guarded secret. Entrance is by invitation only, as I understand.” His shoulders lifted in a barely perceptible sigh. “I’m afraid in order to find out who acquired the Colt, we’ll have to attend one of these gatherings.”

Cas seemed displeased by the idea, but then, Sam also didn’t relish the thought of walking into a demon-run auction house full of the kinds of things he and Dean had spent their lives hunting.

“So we’re supposed to waltz into a demon-infested auction and ask for information on a demon-killing gun?” Dean said, echoing Sam’s sentiments. “Yeah, that’ll go over well.”

“We’ll need to procure an invitation first,” Cas said matter-of-factly.

Sam’s brows lifted. “How are we supposed to come by one of those?” This lead was becoming more and more far-fetched by the minute.

“There’s a crossroads demon,” Castiel said slowly. “By the name of Crowley, who is reportedly a regular attendee.”

Dean clapped his hands together. “Great, so we summon him, wrangle an invitation, and then gank the son-of-a-bitch. Two for one.”

Sam looked at the stoic angel. “You sure about this, Cas?”

“If you insist on this plan to kill the Devil, then we need the Colt.”

Sam glanced at Dean. Whatever reservations his older brother may have had weren’t enough to keep the spark of hope from his eyes. That alone made it worth the risk for Sam.

“Okay.” He closed his laptop. “Let’s summon a demon to get us into a demon auction.”

Dean grinned. “Easy as pie.”

Castiel’s brow furrowed. “I’ve witnessed a few human attempts at making pie. Some were quite disastrous.”

Dean rolled his eyes, and Sam almost smirked, but the truth was that with their lives, Cas’s comment was probably closer to the truth.

* * *

Two hunters and an angel stood at an intersection on an isolated stretch of dirt road, prepared to summon a crossroads demon. Sounded like the beginning of a bad joke to Dean.

He scuffed his boot through the dirt, covering the customary box they’d buried, and stepped back to wait. They’d spray painted a devil’s trap across the road, and Ruby’s knife was tucked in the back of Sam’s jeans. As soon as they got what they needed, they’d rid the world of another demonic SOB.

A cicada’s chirping had provided a musical backdrop to their work, but now that it was done, the night had fallen eerily silent. That’s when the demon popped into view. He was a few inches shorter than Dean, with a rounded, slightly receding hairline, and wore what looked like a fancy business suit with a red tie.

Dean looked around in confusion. “You’re Crowley? What’s with the used-car salesman meatsuit? I thought you guys preferred hot chicks?”

The demon glanced down at the devil’s trap he stood inside, yet seemed unperturbed by it. “Ah, Winchesters,” he spoke with a British accent. “I suspected you would come calling eventually.”

Dean and Sam shot each other questioning looks. What did that mean?

Dean pulled his shoulders back. “We need you to get us an invitation to a demon auction.”

Crowley’s brows lifted. “Is that so? You think you’ll find the Colt there?”

The boys exchanged another wary look. Sam’s fingers twitched as his hand slid slowly toward the knife. This demon seemed to know too much right off the bat.

“How did you—” Castiel started.

“I hear things,” Crowley interrupted. “You want to stop Lucifer; the Colt is one of the few things that can kill him.”

Dean cleared his throat. “Right, so whip us up an invitation and we’ll promise not to kill you.”

Castiel’s perpetual frown deepened at the lie, and Dean shot him a quelling look before the angel could say anything. Cas looked away, staring into the darkness. At least the angel was getting good at reading _those_ facial expressions.

Crowley scoffed. “What do you take me for, some low-level berk? The minute I give you anything, Moose over there,” he nodded to Sam, who snorted at the moniker. “…Is going to stab me with that demon killing knife of his.” Crowley reached up to smooth his jacket. “And I just finished getting blood out of this suit.”

Dean and Sam looked to each other again, and then at Cas. How were they going to force the demon to cooperate?

“I have a better idea,” Crowley continued amiably. “As it turns out, there’s an auction scheduled in two days. I’ll text you the address to meet me at that morning and we’ll all go together, you as my guests.”

Dean snorted. “We’re not stupid either. You’d lead us right into a trap.”

Crowley cocked his head and nodded thoughtfully. “Normally, yes. But I have a vested interest in seeing Lucifer defeated, so at the moment, our purposes align.”

“Why would you want Lucifer dead?” Castiel asked skeptically.

“I’m a crossroads demon; I make deals in exchange for souls, and I’m damn good at it. The Apocalypse is bad for business.”

Dean jerked his head at Sam and the two walked a few paces away. Cas followed, keeping his body angled so the demon was never fully out of sight, despite being secure in the trap.

“What do we do?” Sam asked.

“I don’t know, man. If this is our only shot at getting the Colt…” Dean shook his head. Making deals with demons was never a good idea, but if it helped them take out something bigger and badder…and really, what could be worse than the _Devil_ and friggin’ Apocalypse?

“Don’t see as we have much choice.”

“Dean, he’s a demon—”

“I know that, Cas. But he wants the Devil iced as much as we do.”

“He could be lying.”

“If I may,” Crowley called.

The three of them turned toward him.

“I will tell you that I know who has the Colt. The pompous ass out-bid mewhen it appeared for sale.” The demon’s blase expression hardened for a brief moment.

Dean growled and marched back up to him. “Why didn’t you say that first?”

“That’s not what you asked.”

“Who has the Colt?” Sam demanded.

Crowley gave a dramatic sigh. “Honestly,” he muttered to himself. “Giving you that still leaves me with no bargaining chip. Not that a name would do you any good, as no one, not even me, knows where to find him. He only shows his face at the auctions.”

Dean rolled his eyes; they were getting nowhere. Maybe they should just stab Crowley in the throat and try to find another demon who could get them into the auction. But would they before the one set two days from now? That didn’t leave them much time…

“Besides, you need me,” Crowley said. “Even with an invitation, you can’t just show up at an auction. You’d be killed on the spot.” He rolled his shoulders. “But as my guests, you’ll be protected. Provided you control your ape urges and don’t stab anyone.” His gaze rolled pointedly to meet Dean’s, and the hunter felt a chill creep up his spine as he wondered whether the demon could read minds.

“So,” Crowley said. “Do we have a deal?”

“I ain’t kissing you,” Dean blurted.

Crowley smirked in amusement. “Don’t be so squirrely. Though I would think such a binding contract would put your tiny minds at ease regarding my potential betrayal.”

Castiel stepped forward threateningly. “They’re not making any deals with you.”

“Fine,” the demon sighed in exasperation. “A gentleman’s agreement then. I get you into the auction and make sure none of the clients eat you. Unless of course, you make a move first. Then you’re on your own.”

Sam shifted nervously, expression tight. Dean didn’t like it either, but what choice did they have?

He scuffed his boot over the spray painted dirt, breaking the devil’s trap.

Crowley grinned. “Alright then, we’ll be in touch. Oh, you might want to start driving to Colorado.” With that, he winked away.

The cicada took up its droning once more.

“Right,” Dean said with false cheer. “Like there’s no way this couldn’t go horribly wrong.”


	2. The Auction

The Winchesters hit the road the next morning. Of course, Crowley wasn’t going to narrow down the location other than the “northern part of the state.” Cas had winged off to find another potential lead that would be better than trusting a demon, but hadn’t succeeded by the time he met up with the boys two days later outside Dorchester, Colorado. Crowley it was.

True to his word, the demon had texted them the address of a warehouse on the edge of town, and was waiting outside when they pulled up.

“Hallo, boys.” He gave them a once-over as they exited the Impala. Cas teleported out, still not having adopted the convention of using a door.

Sam eyed the seemingly innocuous warehouse mistrustfully. It was quiet and isolated, the perfect place to hold an underground auction—or an ambush.

Dean walked up next to Cas. “Sense anything?”

The angel’s eyes squinted and he was silent for a beat. “The place is warded.”

“Of course it’s warded,” Crowley snipped. “It’s a private establishment. We don’t want just any riffraff coming in off the street.”

Dean lowered his voice. “So, no idea if there’s a bunch of demons inside waiting to jump us?”

Sam snorted. “It’s a _demon_ auction, Dean. Of course the place will be swarming with them.”

Dean shot his brother a dirty look. “Right, let’s get this over with.”

Grinning way too widely for Sam’s tastes, Crowley gestured for the trio to follow him around to the side of the building. They were met by two hulking bouncers, which was both comforting and nerve-wracking—the former because they looked like actual security for a real event; the latter because they took one look at the Winchesters and their angelic companion, and their eyes flicked to solid black.

“Winchesters,” the one on the right spat.

Dean flashed him a cocky grin. “That’s us.”

Sam’s hand went for Ruby’s knife in his jacket as the guard stepped forward, but Crowley shot a palm up.

“Easy, gents. They’re with me.” He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out an embroidered envelope with scrolling runes on the front. “Crowley, plus three.”

“Seriously?” Sam uttered as one of the bouncers slid the invitation out on a sheet of vellum. The demon sentries exchanged a wary look, clearly not liking the thought of allowing two hunters and an angel into their midst.

“Play nice, boys,” Crowley reminded them, and flicked his hand for the guards to step aside.

They did so begrudgingly, though Sam heard one of them rumble a guttural growl as he passed. Still, getting through the door _maybe_ suggested that this wasn’t some elaborate trap.

Until they passed over the threshold and Sam felt a sizzling sheet of energy run down his spine. His shoulders went rigid in alert as he frantically looked for an attack. Dean was doing the same, while Castiel had a thoughtful mien aimed at a large, lighted orb mounted on the wall above the door. Crowley was grinning smugly.

“What the hell was that?” Sam hissed.

The demon smirked. “Did you think they’d just let you walk in with all those weapons?” He looked at Castiel. “Honestly, how do you deal with their idiocy?”

The angel frowned.

“Cas?” Dean queried.

“It’s a spell. A complex one.” Castiel pursed his lips. “To prevent violence, it seems.”

Sam’s brows shot up. “There’s a spell for that?”

“This is a gentlemen’s game,” Crowley explained. “It wouldn’t be very profitable if a sore loser decided to just kill whoever outbid him on the spot and take what he wanted. Though there have been times I would’ve liked to,” he added with a mutter.

Sam guessed he was referring to when he’d lost out on the Colt. “How exactly does it prevent violence?” he asked.

“Anyone who attempts to do another harm will get blasted by the defensive wards. So if you try to stab anyone with that demon-killing knife, Moose, you’ll end up a pancake on the wall.”

Good to know. Sam figured that also meant they were safe from the monsters and demons here as long as they were inside the warehouse.

Dean’s shoulders drew back with a wave of anger. “You said we needed your protection, but actually we don’t.”

Crowley shrugged. “ _Technically_ , the clients aren’t allowed to eat you.” He paused and gave them a feral grin. “But they could always make an exception and turn the spell off.”

“Why you—”

Crowley put up his hands defensively. “Careful there. Even a punch will get you knocked flat on your ass.”

Sam put a hand on Dean’s arm. “Let’s just focus on why we’re here.”

Grumbling, Dean shook his brother off and they turned their attention to the auction house.

The inside of the warehouse looked much nicer than the outside. The cement floor was clean, the walls lined with bronze panels. Portable dividers had been erected much like a museum gallery, and there were display cases stationed along them and the outer perimeter. Sam spotted two more of those glowing white orbs covering the east and west walls. He guessed a fourth was probably mounted further back on the north side, somewhere behind a set of large, double-doors that led into a smaller room. Three men were moving about inside, setting up chairs in rows facing a low platform.

The gallery had about twenty-five people milling about and perusing the objects for sale. “People” was a loose term, Sam thought. Meatsuits for demons more likely. Though he did spot a Djinn, and wondered just what kind of variety they were going to find in here.

The hairs on the back of Sam’s neck prickled, and he realized the other guests had begun staring at their group. Most were whispering and casting furtive glances at him and Dean, though a couple were staring at Castiel, who was glaring back. Guess Sam had an inclination on which ones were demons.

“Whoa, seriously?” Dean suddenly gasped.

Sam whirled, braced for an attack, but Dean was standing in front of a glass case, admiring a dagger. The blade gleamed like silver, and the ornate hilt was a dark, charcoal colored metal set with sapphires. What looked like Old Welsh runes were etched over nearly every inch of the dirk. Sam peered over Dean’s shoulder at the tag tied around the pommel. _“Carnwennan.”_

Sam let out a soft noise of surprise. “That belonged to King Arthur.”

Dean blinked. “What, like _the_ King Arthur? Sword in the stone Arthur?” He turned back to appraise the dagger. “Huh, I just thought it looked cool.”

Sam rolled his eyes.

“That is a sacred weapon bestowed on Arthur by God,” Castiel said, voice gruffer than usual with indignation. “If the angels knew it was here…”

“Thankfully for all of us, they’re not going to find out,” Crowley snapped. “I didn’t invite you here to throw a fit just because someone found what you guys failed to keep track of centuries ago.”

Castiel glared at him. “Only a man of God is fit to wield that dagger.”

Sam arched a brow at Dean, Heaven’s proclaimed “righteous man.” His brother’s brow was furrowed in thought, probably imagining what he could do with that weapon. Did it have any power to take down the Devil?

Crowley sighed. “Keep your eye on the ball here. You want the Colt, remember?”

Cas fell silent, but the lines around his eyes remained pinched. If he wasn’t on the outs with the other angels, he probably would have called them down to crash the auction. With a twinge of guilt, Sam felt relieved the angel couldn’t call on his brothers right then.

“What’s it going for?” Dean asked suddenly. “I’d love to add this to my hunting arsenal.”

“I’m fairly certain it’s out of your price range,” Crowley said. “Unless you plan to offer up your soul.”

Dean jerked away from the display case.

“Just introduce us to the guy who has the Colt,” Sam said irritably.

A resonating gong interrupted them and a loud voice called, “The auction will start in five minutes.”

Crowley brightened. “Ah, let’s find a seat, shall we?”

The boys shot him peeved glares, but the demon ignored them as he joined the group filing into the auction room. With no other choice, the two hunters and the angel followed, settling into chairs in the back row.

The auction started off with an ancient grimoire on transmutation spells, and it was clear once the bidding started that the Winchesters were sorely out of their league. Bids ranged from gold and jewels to other priceless artifacts, and the grimoire ended up selling for a jar of dried fairy wings.

On some level, Sam was fascinated by the bartering system and how the buyers and sellers determined which items held the greater value. Yet he was also horrified when King Arthur’s dagger sold for a liter of virgin’s blood. Dean looked disgusted as well, and Cas…well, the angel was practically fidgeting as Carnwennan was carried off stage to the holding area.

“Next up is Pandora’s Box,” the auctioneer announced, and an underwhelmingly plain wooden box was set on the block. Sam squinted in an effort to see better, and could barely make out some kind of inscription around the sealed lid.

“The Mona Lisa,” Crowley called.

“Seriously?” Dean growled.

The demon shrugged. “What? You think the real one is actually hanging in the Louvre?”

“You’re here to help us find the Colt, not shop!”

“I don’t see why I can’t do both.”

“ _Guys_.” Sam cast a nervous glance at the monsters sitting in front of them, who were inclining their ears to listen.

“Thor’s Hammer!” someone else called.

The auctioneer beamed. “Sold!” His gavel thudded on the wooden podium.

“Bollocks,” Crowley grumbled.

Dean leaned as close to the demon as he dared and whispered, “So help me God, Crowley, if you don’t point out the guy we’re looking for…”

“Fine, fine.” He swept his gaze across the room, and after a moment, rolled his neck slightly, a flicker of irritation in his eyes. “He’s not here.”

“ _What?_ ”

“He usually shows up for these things,” the demon hissed. “Bloody bastard.”

“That’s it. Sam?” Dean held his hand out to his brother, a silent request for Ruby’s knife.

Sam half-rolled his eyes. “ _Dean_ , no violence spell, remember?”

“They made it with monsters in mind; I’m willing to test the human factor.”

“Simmer down,” Crowley muttered. “I see someone who will know where to find Magnus.”

_Magnus?_

Dean’s expression was practically livid. “You said no one knew where to find him!”

“Did I? I meant almost no one. Now do you want an introduction or not?”

Dean gritted his teeth and looked more ready to flay Crowley than continue with the plan, so Sam leaned forward in earnest. “Yes.”

“Alright then.” Crowley stood and ambled back out to the gallery. The boys and Cas got up to follow. Since the auction was still going on, at least they didn’t have to worry about an audience.

A short, gangly man with greasy blond hair down to his shoulders was busy wiping down some of the now empty display cases.

“Philo, old chap, how’s business,” Crowley greeted.

“Better than yours if you’re leashed to hunters now.”

“Try the other way around.”

Dean opened his mouth to argue the point, but Crowley plowed on. “We’re looking for Magnus. I’d hoped he’d be here today, but it seems none of the items caught his interest.”

Philo shrugged, continuing to rub a cloth across the glass.

Crowley’s jaw ticked. “So, where can we find him?”

Philo scoffed. “You know he doesn’t like to be bothered.”

“But he does like a good deal, and we have a business proposition for him.”

Sam shot Dean a covert look. Were they going to have to barter for the Colt? That hadn’t come up in their planning sessions, and based on how the auction in the other room was going, they didn’t have any currency this Magnus might want.

Dean gave a subtle shake with his eyes. They’d figure it out once they found him. Besides, hopefully Magnus would just give it to them. After all, he’d have a vested interest in stopping the Apocalypse just like Crowley did. Guy couldn’t enjoy his collection if he was dead.

Philo paused in his cleaning and tapped a finger to his chin. “What will you give me for that information?”

Crap, they didn’t have anything to offer.

Dean rounded on Crowley. “Why don’t you pay him, you know, with the Mona Lisa or something?”

“Must I do all the work?” he retorted.

“Dean,” Cas suddenly said with a hint of urgency. “Demons are coming.”

Dean scowled. “So what if the auction’s over? This whole trip has been a complete waste.”

Except Castiel wasn’t looking toward the auction room, but at the front door. Crowley suddenly stiffened and uttered a curse under his breath.

Sam whipped his gaze between the angel and the demon. “What?”

The door at the end of the warehouse suddenly slammed open with a bang and seven black-eyed demons swarmed in.


	3. Party Crashers

 

Dean whirled to chew out Crowley for betraying them, but the crossroads demon had vanished.

“Hello, boys,” a petite brunette crooned as she walked in last.

“Meg,” Dean spat. Damn, that bitch just kept popping up, and the fact that he hadn’t yet been able to successfully gank her was irritating. “I would think you wouldn’t warrant an invitation to a high-class place like this.”

The female demon lifted a brow as she surveyed the gallery, lip curling in disgust. “These fools don’t deserve to be called demons. We don’t buy what we want; we take it.” She threw Philo a vicious look, and he shrank back behind the display case.

“Uh-huh.” Dean pulled out his gun. Bullets wouldn’t kill demons, but they might slow them down.

Sam made a low noise in his throat that caught Dean’s attention, and his younger brother gave him a sharp glare before flicking his eyes to the orb above the door. Right, no violence spell. So if Dean shot first, he’d get hit with the whammy. Which meant they had to let the demons make the first move and hope the spell knocked them out. Not the best plan, in Dean’s book.

Meg turned a simpering smile toward Sam. “So, Sammy, ready to come meet Lucifer?”

Some of the color drained from Sam’s face.

“Hell no, bitch,” Dean snapped.

“Wasn’t really looking for your permission, Dean-o.”

“Hold up,” a new voice spoke, and all eyes turned toward a side door. A scrawny guy wearing tapered slacks and a pleather vest inched out into the gallery. He pushed a pair of thick, black-rimmed glasses up his nose and cleared his throat. “What about my payment?”

Dean gritted his teeth. They _had_ been sold out, though that shouldn’t have been a surprise.

Meg’s expression turned icy. “You promised us the vessel and the traitor Crowley. I see only one of them.”

Well, that _was_ somewhat surprising; Crowley hadn’t turned on them after all. He just promptly abandoned them when things got dicey. _Dick._

“Uh…” The snitch looked around. “He’s gone. But you still got the Winchesters. And an angel.”

Meg’s gaze slid to Castiel and her lips pursed in a thoughtful moue. “I suppose that’s an added bonus.”

Castiel stood rigidly, eyes narrowed on the demons slowly advancing to surround them. With the tiniest clink, an angel blade dropped from his sleeve into his hand. Dean bit back a reminder about the spell, not wanting to give away their only advantage over the demons. He tried to catch Cas’s eye, but the angel was focused on the demons.

“So,” the douchewad ventured. “My payment?”

Meg gave him a feral grin. “Leave before I rip you to pieces.”

The guy sputtered. “That wasn’t the deal!”

“Didn’t your mother ever teach you not to make deals with the devil?”

The snitch looked ready to protest some more, and Dean seriously hoped Meg would attempt to disembowel the guy, if only so he could see that smug look smacked off her face when the spell activated.

The weasel’s gaze shifted slightly toward one of the orbs. Shit, was he going to tell Meg her threat was pointless? But after a moment’s thought, the guy snapped his trap shut. Casting Meg a seething glare, he turned and scurried away down the corridor.

Meg rolled her eyes. “Filthy warlocks. When my father takes over the earth, we’re going to have ourselves a little extermination party.” She turned back to the boys. “So, are you going to come quietly?”

“Not a chance in Hell,” Dean growled, fighting the urge to respond with a fired bullet instead of words. _Let them make the first mo_ ve.

Meg grinned. “I was hoping you’d say that.” With a nod from her, the other demons converged on them.

A hulking brute was going to reach Sam first, and no violence spell or not, Dean wasn’t going to stand there and not defend his little brother. He swung his pistol around, even as Cas moved in the blink of an eye, reappearing in front of Sam as the six-foot-two demon bore down on them.

“Cas, don’t!” Sam cried, but the angel didn’t raise his blade. He simply stood there, firm as a statue as the demon bellowed a war cry and swung a meaty fist at Cas’s head. The blow never connected. There was an explosive whump and the air rippled like water centimeters in front of Cas. With a shriek, the demon went flying back into the wall where he hit with a sickening crunch before sliding to the floor.

Dean blinked in awe. Damn, that was some spell.

The other demons froze mid-charge, exchanging bewildered looks. Meg gaped at Castiel, and for once the bitch didn’t have a snappy comeback.

“You should leave now,” the angel said.

“How did you…?”

“What is going on out here?” the auctioneer bellowed as he stormed through the double doors at the back of the gallery. He took one look at the black-eyed demons and armed hunters, and his cheeks puffed with rage. “How did you get in here?”

“Oh, you mean where are your two lackeys?” Meg purred. “They’ve been reassigned.”

The auctioneer began turning red and spittle flew from his lips. “All of you out, now!”

Meg’s expression soured and she lifted a hand as though to smack the man with a telekinetic punch, but paused, glancing over her shoulder at the fallen demon, who was just now stumbling awkwardly to his feet. Dean cringed at the faint cracking sound of bones realigning.

Meg’s gaze drifted up a fraction and she suddenly laughed. “Demons casting a no violence spell? It _is_ the end of the world.”

Several of the clientele followed the auctioneer out, shoulders back and postures stiff as they formed a sort of unified opposition against the party crashers.

“Guess we’ll have to take a raincheck,” Dean said, feeling slightly giddy with confidence now that he knew the spell worked. So they just needed Cas to teleport them out of there—into the Impala, of course. He wasn’t leaving his baby behind.

Meg flashed him a mischievous grin. “Oh, I don’t think so.” Looking around, her eyes suddenly lit up and she strode to a display case holding a trident. She smashed the glass with her fist, grabbed the weapon, and arched her arm back.

The auctioneer gasped and took a step toward her, but couldn’t intervene before she’d lobbed it through the air. The sharpened prongs struck the orb above the door and it exploded in a shower of sparks. A concussive force knocked Dean back a step. The other two orbs on the east and west walls flickered and died with a fizzle.

_Well, shit._

For a moment, the auction clientele looked livid as they glared at Meg, but slowly their attention started angling toward each other and the various treasures tucked in their arms. In a flash, the place erupted in violence as demons and monsters attacked, trying to wrest priceless objects from those who’d outbid them.

“No, no!” the auctioneer cried, but he was quickly bowled over by two burly oafs wrestling over a jeweled box.

Meg clapped her hands together as the gallery filled with chaos. “Now this is my kind of party!”

Dean tossed her a cheeky grin. “Couldn’t agree more.” And he squeezed the trigger. The bullet tore through Meg’s shoulder, the force knocking her down. Her demon lackeys converged on the Winchesters again, but Cas moved to intercept three of the remaining seven. His angel blade glinted with each slash and his trench coat swished about him as he spun and pivoted. Strangled gasps and cries punctuated his movements, and it wasn’t long before one body dropped in a spasm of dying orange light.

The last four demons split up evenly against Dean and Sam. His brother had Ruby’s knife, which would take out the demons, but Dean didn’t have that advantage. He started uttering an exorcism ritual when a heavy weight slammed into him from the side. The gun was knocked from his hand and went skittering across the concrete. Dean’s shoulder took the brunt of the fall, but an elbow to his gut knocked the wind from him as a Djinn and a demon wrestling over a grimoire used him as a floor mat.

They finally rolled away to crash into some display cases, and Dean frantically crawled the opposite direction before they could squash him again. Wheezing, he tried to get back on his feet, but one of Meg’s demons grabbed him by his shirt collar and hoisted him off up the floor. Dean winced as pain lanced through his throbbing shoulder. The demon snarled and tossed him fifteen feet through the air. He smashed into a pile of crates that splintered under his weight.

With a groan, Dean crawled onto his knees and shook the spots from his vision, coming face to face with an elderly man huddled behind some boxes Dean had missed in his free fall. The gentleman was clutching King Arthur’s dagger to his chest, eyes wide and darting back and forth as though terrified someone was going to steal his prized possession.

Dean gave him an apologetic half-grin. “Uh, I need to borrow this.”

The man’s eyes nearly bugged out of his head and he tried to recoil further in on himself, but Dean managed to snatch the dagger out of his grip. He jumped out from behind the boxes and thrust the blade into one of the demon’s chests. To his delight, orange lightning sparked from within the demon as it died. Yep, he definitely needed to get one of these.

He charged at the second demon, who snarled viciously and lunged to meet him. They collided with a jarring thud, and the demon swung Dean against the wall. His shoulder jarred painfully, sending a fresh burst of white spots across his eyes. He’d barely refocused before a fist came flying toward his face. Dean ducked, and the bronze panel behind him dented inward with a creak as the demon’s fist struck it.

Dean darted under the guy’s arm and spun around. Raising the blade above his head, he rammed it into the demon’s back and all the way through until the tip clanged against metal and the shocking vibration rattled up Dean’s arms. He let go of the hilt and stumbled back as the demon howled and arched his back, gurgling and sputtering. A second later he collapsed and the orange lightning fizzled out.

Dean spun to check on Sam and Cas, but they seemed fine—standing upright with no visible signs of blood. The rest of the demons were laid out about their feet. Meg had disappeared. Again. One of these days Dean needed to take her out first.

The brawling monsters had also scattered, and there were several gouged and bleeding corpses left behind.

Dean bent down and plucked King Arthur’s dagger from the demon’s back. He frowned at a stream of silver bleeding out from a large crack across the middle of the blade. As the liquid trickled down, the silver glow dimmed and faded to slate.

“You…you broke it!”

Dean looked up as the older man staggered out from behind the crates. His face was pale and eyes wide, hands shaking as he pointed at the dagger in Dean’s hand.

Sam came over and inspected the blade, also uttering a strangled sound of disbelief. “Dean, you _broke King Arthur’s sword?_ ”

Cas tilted his head and frowned at the crack. “Its magic is gone,” he said prosaically.

The old man continued to sputter incoherently, and looked as though he was about to fall over from shock.

Dean shrugged guiltily. “Huh, shouldn’t magical weapons be like, indestructible?”

Sam snorted. “Apparently not around a Winchester.”

Eyeing the dagger with regret, Dean handed it back to its proper owner, who cradled the broken blade in his hands, stroking and caressing the smooth metal.

“Dude, that’s just creepy.”

The man shot Dean a baleful glare and started muttering under his breath. But when he looked at the blade again, his expression melted into anguish once more and a pathetic whimper warbled in his throat. Dean rolled his eyes, feeling no sympathy. After all, the guy had paid for the dagger with _virgin’s blood_ , which Dean could only imagine how he’d come by.

“Let’s just go,” Sam said. “Before Meg comes back with reinforcements.”

Damnit, they hadn’t gotten what they came for. Dean glanced around the trashed gallery and spotted Philo peeking out from behind a toppled display case. So the cretin hadn’t run off.

“Hey,” Dean called, and strode over. “Uh, sorry about the mess.” Though he didn’t really mean it. Just one less monster or demon he’d have to hunt later. “Back to our business earlier on where can we find Magnus?”

Philo looked at each of them warily, gaze finally settling on Ruby’s knife in Sam’s hand. He licked his lips. “I’ll tell you where Magnus is for that.”

“What? No way,” Sam said.

Philo scowled. “Information isn’t free.”

“Fine,” Dean said. “You tell us where Magnus is, and we give you permission to walk out of here.” He looked up at the orbs, one broken, the other two opaque. “The no violence spell isn’t here to protect you anymore.”

Philo’s eyes darkened as he glared at them. This time he paused at Castiel, and after an awkward moment of staring at the angel, the muscles in his face smoothed. “No problem,” he said slowly, and wet his lips again. “I’ll draw you a map.”


	4. Magnus

 

Philo’s directions were more like a child’s version of a treasure map: turn right at the water tower, cross the bridge over the creak, drive over a hill, to grandmother’s house we go. Unfortunately, Philo’s map-making skills left something to be desired, as Dean was pretty sure they made several turns back and forth before reaching the woods. They could have gotten there in half the time if they’d just driven straight after the water tank. Maybe Philo was intentionally having some fun with them, since they’d refused to trade Ruby’s knife for Magnus’s location. Which was apparently in the middle of nowhere. If the miserable demon had sent them on a wild goose chase, Dean was driving straight back to the warehouse and ganking the son-of-a-bitch.

He pulled the Impala up to a three-bedroom cottage half-covered in creeping bougainvillea. None of the flowers were in bloom, and several pots around the porch sported nothing but shriveled bushes. The place appeared abandoned. Dean clenched his jaw as he got out of the car. Yeah, this looked promising.

Sam swept his gaze around the cabin. “Think this is it?”

“It better be. No one else is out here.” Dean strode toward the front door, Sam and Cas close behind, and pounded the soft side of his fist on the wood. He hadn’t really been expecting anyone to be home, not with the dilapidated state the place was in, so it was a slight surprise when the bolt slid back and the door swung inward.

A man with black hair combed back in slick 50’s fashion stood on the other side. He wore a charcoal gray dress suit, ruffled white shirt, and a black-and-white striped bow-tie.

Dean lifted his brows at the manicured get-up that didn’t quite match the house’s exterior.

“Uh, Magnus?” Sam asked.

The man grinned. “You must be the Winchesters. Philo said you were coming.”

The hairs on the back of Dean’s neck prickled, though it made sense the weasel would give Magnus a heads-up…make sure the guy was home when they stopped by…yeah, ‘cause demons were so helpful like that. And what was Magnus, anyway? Demon or monster?

“I’m Sam, and this is my brother, Dean.” Gotta leave it to his younger brother to remember his manners.

Magnus shifted his gaze to over their shoulders.

“Oh, and that’s Cas.”

His smile brightened and he took a step back. “Please, come in.”

Dean entered first, but pulled up short at Magnus’s decor. Lace doilies covered a glass coffee table with brass legs, next to which sat a floral patterned sofa. A huge bookcase lined the left wall, only it didn’t sport books, but little porcelain figurines. Everything in the place screamed little old lady, from the Pine-sol smell to the china cups hanging in a hutch back where the living room joined a small kitchen.

“Uh, you’re Magnus, collector of supernatural artifacts?” Sam spoke up, voicing Dean’s thoughts. Seriously, where were the old tomes that would send his geeky brother into a tizzy as though it were Christmas? Or the mystical weapons? Like the _Colt_.

“That’s me,” Magnus beamed. “I have the largest collection in the world.”

Dean snorted. “Right, so these here are what, voodoo dolls?” He gestured to a trio of pilgrim children figurines on the bookshelf.

Magnus chuckled. “Don’t be silly. I don’t keep valuables out where anyone could just steal them.”

“Riight,” Dean drawled. This place better have an extensive underground vault then, because he just wasn’t seeing how this dinky cottage could support “the largest collection in the world.”

“So, uh, we hear you have the Colt,” Dean continued.

“Ah yes.” Magnus splayed his fingertips together as though in prayer. “A fine piece that is.”

“Well, we need it.”

“Dean,” Sam reprimanded. “What my brother means, Mr. …uh, Magnus, is that we need your help. I’m sure with all your knowledge of the supernatural that you’re aware the Apocalypse is going on.”

“Yes, I’ve noted the signs.” He swept his gaze over each of them once more, a sly smile tugging his lips, and walked over to a serving cart with small cups and a kettle. “Tea?”

“No thanks.” Sam glanced at Dean, who lifted his brows in a ‘is he all there?’ look. Sam shrugged.

Magnus poured a cup of tea and plunked two cubes of sugar in it. “So how does the looming Apocalypse relate to the Colt?”

“We need it to kill Lucifer,” Castiel spoke up.

Magnus’s brows lifted and he paused in his stirring to look at Cas with a measure of intrigue. “Well, isn’t that exciting. Philo told me of the demon attack, how bravely you all fought.” He clucked his tongue. “I’m sorry I missed it.”

“Yeah, it was a real barrel of monkeys,” Dean grumbled.

Castiel squinted at him. “I don’t understand; there were no monkeys at the auction.”

Dean rolled his eyes to the ceiling.

Magnus picked up the cup of tea and walked it over to Cas. “Perhaps you can regale me with the details of the battle.”

Cas looked at the proffered cup, and then at Magnus. The two stood staring at each other, a foot apart, both apparently deficient in the concept of personal space. Dean pressed a fist to his mouth and attempted a fake cough to keep from laughing. Was the guy seriously man-crushing on Cas? Sam looked slightly disturbed as he watched the two of them.

Castiel tilted his head, eyes narrowing. “You’re human,” he stated. “But almost eighty years old.”

Dean’s head whipped up at that. “Excuse me?”

Magnus looked pleased. “That I am.”

“Uh,” Dean fumbled. “Well, you look pretty good for your age.”

“There’s a spell for everything.” He took the cup back to the cart and set it down. Then he leaned over and opened a desk drawer, pulling out the Colt.

Dean sucked in a breath at finally seeing the weapon again. Not only would he be thrilled to have it back, but the hope that they could stop Lucifer and the Apocalypse just went from ‘a snowball’s chance in Hell,’ to ‘a beach day’s chance in Hell.’ Awesome.

Magnus lifted the gun and turned it back and forth to admire it. “Such ingenious craftsmanship.”

Sam cleared his throat. “So, uh, can we borrow it?”

He set the gun on the desk and sighed. “I’m afraid not.”

Dean blinked. “Come again?”

“This piece is too valuable. I can’t let it go. Suppose you lost it, or it was destroyed?”

Sam sputtered. “We’re talking about the Apocalypse! If we don’t kill Lucifer, half the planet is going to die, including you. What good will your collection be then?”

Magnus waved a dismissive hand. “I’m prepared for such contingencies.”

“You’re prepared to wait out the end of the world?” Dean scoffed.

“As I said, there’s a spell for everything.” That complacent grin was really starting to irk Dean.

“And the rest of the world be damned?” he spat.

Magnus shrugged one shoulder, and returned his gaze to Cas, lips pursing thoughtfully.

Doing his best to keep the reins on his temper, Dean grabbed the angel’s coat sleeve and tugged him toward the front of the room. “Why don’t you just zap over there and get it?” Dean growled under his breath.

Castiel frowned. “You want to steal it?”

Dean shot him a furious look before glancing over his shoulder to make sure Magnus hadn’t heard. The man was sipping his cup of tea, watching them, but still with that annoyingly smug smile that Dean wanted to punch off his face. Sam hadn’t moved to join them, but he would’ve known what Dean was thinking, and had surreptitiously crossed his arms, right hand tucked underneath the other near Ruby’s knife.

“Dude,” Dean hissed. “End of the world, remember?”

Castiel’s brow pinched, but after a moment where Dean thought his friend was going to refuse, he gave a barely perceptible nod. In a rush of wings, Cas was gone, only to reappear a moment later next to Dean, holding the Colt. Sam drew his knife, prepared for an outraged Magnus, but the man was simply standing by the tea cart, _beaming_. A bad feeling wormed its way through Dean’s gut.

“Sorry about this,” he said roughly, stepping toward the exit. “The fate of the world is more important than your hobby.” _Damn, why was the guy still smiling?_

Magnus’s lips moved in a quick incantation. Dean’s muscles tensed, braced for a spell. Nothing happened. Nothing discernible to him anyway, but he felt Castiel flinch beside him and start whipping his gaze around the walls.

“Cas?” Dean asked nervously, because if the angel was unsettled, he damn sure was too.

“Warding,” he replied gruffly. “We’re trapped.”

Sam sidestepped to join them, Ruby’s knife still raised at the ready. “Can you zap us out?”

Castiel’s mouth thinned, and he looked slightly distraught. Not an expression Dean wanted to see on the angel’s face. “No.”

Dean grabbed the Colt from him and aimed it at Magnus. “Let us out.”

Magnus uttered another spell and the Colt went flying out of Dean’s hand, clattering against the bookcase. The magician let out a small chuckle and slowly approached them. “Relax, I have no intention of harming you. I must thank you though, for this opportunity.”

Sam gave him a perplexed frown. “What opportunity?”

“To enhance my collection, of course. Some items are so rare they never show up at an auction.”

Dean stiffened as his brother tightened his grip on Ruby’s knife. Man, did everyone have their eye on that blade lately?

“Yeah, well, you’re not getting that,” Dean said, glancing at their only effective weapon against demons.

Magnus arched a bemused brow and followed Dean’s gaze. Laughter bubbled up from his chest. “Oh, yes, that is a marvelous piece. But I was referring to your companion.” Magnus looked to Castiel again, his eyes lighting up with an almost manic glee.

“An angel will make a magnificent addition to my private zoo.”

Dean barely had a chance to register the absurd combination of “angel” and “ _zoo_ ” in the same sentence before Magnus said another short incantation and opened his palm, blowing a cloud of orange dust in all their faces. Dean’s vision went hazy and blackness swarmed in. He vaguely processed Sammy toppling like a felled oak before oblivion took him.

* * *

Sam heard a buzzing in his head and rolled over to smack the obnoxious alarm clock, only to find himself lying on a hardwood floor.

_What the hell?_ Had he fallen out of bed? His eyelids felt glued shut, and he briefly wondered if this was some kind of prank by Dean. Had his older brother gotten him drunk? Who knew what crazy-ass things they might have done, that Dean might have pictures of… Except his brother didn’t pull stunts like that anymore—not since Hell.

A groan escaped his lips and Sam managed to pry his eyes open, blinking at the dazzling array of spots that greeted him. Pushing up onto his forearms, he bumped against another body laying on the floor.

“Dean!” The last of his brain fog evaporated as Sam checked to see if his brother was breathing.

“Dean.” Sam gave him a light smack on the cheek.

“Four hours, Sammy,” he grumbled.

Sam looked out the window of the cottage and noticed the shadows had grown longer, nearly covering the house in shade. He checked the time on his phone. Shit, they’d been out for nearly two hours.

“Dean, wake up!”

Dean jerked and his eyes flew open. He blinked in confusion and craned his neck to take in his surroundings. “Wh- the hell happened?” he slurred.

Sam rocked back on his heels, reaching up to brace his aching head with one hand. “I think Magnus knocked us out with a spell.”

“Son-of-a-bitch,” Dean muttered, then hauled himself upright. He shook his head as though to clear his vision. “Where’s Cas?”

Sam stiffened and whipped his head around, ignoring the stab of pain behind his eyelids. The angel was nowhere to be seen. Sam’s stomach turned as he remembered Magnus’s last words before he drugged them, something about adding an angel to his _private zoo_.

Sam’s mouth tightened. “Magnus must have him.”

Dean swore again and pushed himself to his feet. After swaying slightly, he strode off to do a sweep of the house. Sam patted his pockets and realized Ruby’s knife was gone. He frantically searched the area near where he’d fallen, getting on his knees to check under the sofa and table, but couldn’t find it. He hurried to the bookcase where the Colt had landed when Magnus magically wrenched it away from Dean, but it had vanished as well. Sam ran his hands through his hair, a series of curses spilling from his lips.

Dean returned a minute later. “I got nothing. No Cas, or Magnus. Just more of those stupid china dolls. You get the feeling this isn’t really Magnus’s house? I mean, where’s his famous collection?” Dean gestured to the knickknacks and childlike motifs.

Sam nodded. “We’ve been played.”

The brothers looked at each other and said in unison, “Philo.”

“Son-of-a-bitch told Magnus we were coming,” Dean growled. “I bet he even gave us those crappy directions on purpose to delay us.”

“Yeah,” Sam agreed. “Magnus must have known Cas was an angel from the start. He had that warding all set up for us.” Now that Sam looked back on their interaction with the magician, the man had seemed oddly preoccupied with Castiel. Sam had just shrugged it off as the awkward angel’s ability to draw attention. He should have paid more attention to the collector’s nuances.

“How the hell did he get the drop on Cas anyway?” Dean said angrily. “He’s an angel for crying out loud.”

Sam shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know, Dean. What was with all those spells he was spouting? This guy is clearly powerful.”

“Alright, so how do we get Cas back? How much of a head start do they have?”

Sam frowned. “Two hours.” But who knew what kinds of magical transportation methods Magnus had access to. Not that he’d mention that to Dean, who looked ready to explode with rage. Sam scratched his head. “We could try Philo again. If he’s close with Magnus, maybe he knows where his real residence is.”

Dean snorted. “One problem there, Sammy—the auction house has likely been abandoned since we crashed the party, and we have even less of an idea on where to find a low-level demon.” He turned and smacked his palm against the wall.

Sam bit back a response. Dean was just worried. So was he. At least since Magnus was a collector, he was probably keeping Castiel alive, just locked up…in a zoo no less. Where the hell did he have space to keep a supernatural zoo? Unless the magician preferred _mounted_ supernatural beings.

Swallowing hard, Sam shoved that thought as far down as possible.

“We can summon Crowley again,” he said suddenly.

Dean spun around. “What? How would that help?”

“Because Crowley knows Philo, so he should be able to find him. And we still share the original goal of getting the Colt to kill Lucifer, so he has every reason to help us.”

Dean’s jaw ticked, but after a moment his eyes hardened and he nodded. “Let’s do it.”

They headed for the door, and as they passed one of the wall shelves, Dean lashed his arm across it, scattering little shepherd children to the floor in a crash of shattering porcelain. Sam cast a sympathetic look at his brother’s back as Dean quickened his pace to the Impala. Yeah, no one messed with their angel.


	5. Welcome to the Zoo

 

Castiel felt heavy, a strange fuzzy sensation swirling around his head. It was decidedly unpleasant. As consciousness slowly seeped in, he realized he’d lost a significant amount of time. Another unsettling feeling, being disconnected and trapped in a dark, numb oblivion. The only other instance he’d experienced such a lapse in awareness was after the archangel smote him. Death was a gaping black hole he didn’t like to think about.

Castiel drew his senses back to himself and focused on his vessel. It felt oddly weighted, more so than usual for this physical form. His eyelids slowly slid open, blurred vision focusing on a cement floor dashed with lines and whorls of white paint. Enochian?

Throbbing pain in his vessel’s arms jolted him fully awake, and Castiel found himself suspended, arms stretched tautly to either side with thick metal cuffs encircling each wrist. Two empty, iron cells flanked him, but he wasn’t in one, just restrained in the middle of a large space set in the back of what appeared to be a vast, underground chamber. More Enochian symbols were splashed across the walls and ceiling around him. Castiel could feel their power pressing in upon him, creating an intangible prison.

For a moment, he thought he’d been trapped by other angels, though he didn’t remember encountering any. And this location was unfamiliar, not part of the beautiful room or another temporary holding place on earth that Zachariah used. No, Castiel had been with the Winchesters, visiting a man named Magnus who had the Colt…

Castiel sagged, remembering Magnus utter a spell, though he didn’t recognize it. Remembered the powder exploding in his face and dragging him into that wretched sea of nothingness. He shouldn’t have succumbed so easily, shouldn’t have been beaten by a simple incantation. He was an angel…

Except that ever since rebelling and being cut off from Heaven, he was slowly falling. He no longer had the same powers, the same strength. He couldn’t heal Bobby Singer’s legs, couldn’t fly as quickly and effortlessly. He was weakening, and would soon be useless in the fight against Lucifer, the Apocalypse, and the other angels.

Castiel tried to put those thoughts away, to concentrate on his predicament. He had just enough room to pull his feet up and stand, easing the pressure on his arms only a fraction. Still, being able to support his own weight gave him a small measure of fortitude. Frowning, Castiel tugged against the chains with the intent of snapping them from their bolts, but found his strength sorely depleted. Not just his physical energies, but his angelic ones as well.

A closer inspection of the manacles revealed a number of sigils carved into the bands. That explained his sapped strength, but how could a man like Magnus even know of such things? Angel weaknesses were a carefully guarded secret. They were warriors of God, meant to be invincible against the faces of evil, and most certainly against mortals. Had Castiel fallen so far already?

With bitter resignation, he realized he would no longer be able to protect the Winchesters. Where were they now? He couldn’t sense them, though because they weren’t nearby or because the spelled chains were blocking him, Castiel didn’t know. He only hoped that Magnus had been truthful when he said he meant the Winchesters no harm. Perhaps the man only wanted him, though Castiel didn’t understand why.

He turned his attention to the rest of the underground chamber. A few yards down stood six large, glass enclosures along the walls, before the aisle turned at a ninety degree angle. Castiel had no way of knowing how far the corridor then stretched. Each of the cells had one or more figures inside, some sitting in a corner, others pacing idly. Despite his senses being suppressed, Castiel was faintly able to detect the essences of a vampire, a wendigo, and at least three werewolves. Beyond that, he couldn’t make out what other occupants the vivariums contained.

_What was this place?_

A muffled echo of creaking metal filtered down from somewhere in the vault, and a moment later footsteps reverberated across the stone floor. Magnus rounded the corner, a slight spring in his step. As he approached Castiel, an elated grin stretched his cheeks.

“I do apologize for the current accommodations,” the man said, eyeing the chains. “It’s only temporary, a holding area for new acquisitions until I can complete the process of cataloging.”

Castiel’s brow pinched, not understanding. “How do you know all these?” he asked, flicking his gaze at the sigils.

“I used to be part of an organization that studied the supernatural. Knowledge is the greatest power there is.”

Castiel frowned. There were humans that knew of angels? Not hunters, it sounded like. But how could mere mortals have gained so much information?

He drew his shoulders taut. “What have you done with Sam and Dean?”

“Those two baboons?” Magnus scoffed. “Nothing. I have no interest in hunters. They slept off my little spell and then left.”

Castiel didn’t know whether to believe the magician or not. He wanted to believe Sam and Dean were safe. What would they do since they hadn’t gotten the Colt? Find another way to kill Lucifer? Castiel doubted there was another way, but somehow he trusted that if there were, the Winchester brothers would be the ones to find it. He could only pray to his absent father for their success, now that he could no longer help them.

“What do you want?” Castiel asked wearily. As far as he could see, there was no getting out of this, not while the chains and angel warding drained his ability to fly or fight back.

Magnus’s eyes danced and he steepled his fingers. “I’m dying to see them.”

“See what?”

“Your wings, of course! I realize they’re on the ethereal plane right now, but go ahead and materialize them.”

Castiel merely blinked at him. That was what the man had gone to so much trouble for? He wanted to see an angel’s wings? Well, Castiel had no intention of indulging him. Aside from the fact that he’d refused to aid the Winchesters by giving them the Colt, and had spelled them, angel wings were not a source for trivial, mortal entertainment.

Magnus gestured giddily. “Come on, show me the wings.”

Castiel bristled. “No.”

He sighed, shoulders drooping. His disappointment only lasted a moment, however, before an eager grin split his face again. “Well, you will soon enough.”

Castiel doubted that, but remained silent.

Magnus pulled out a pocket watch and clucked his tongue. “Oh, but first, it’s feeding time.” He shrugged dramatically. “There really is quite a lot to do for a zoo’s upkeep.” He turned to leave, but pivoted back for a moment, finger pressed to his lips in thought. “Angels don’t eat, correct?”

Castiel’s brow creased. “No…”

Magnus looked pleased. “Thought so. That will require low maintenance then.” With that, he sauntered off, leaving Castiel even more confused.

Several minutes later, the man returned with a rolling cart stacked with bags of blood and meat. Castiel watched as the magician snapped his fingers and the front glass pane to the vampire’s enclosure flickered and disappeared. To Castiel’s surprise, the monster didn’t attack; he simply stood in the center of the cell and caught the bag of blood Magnus tossed him. Then the vamp tore into greedily, splattering red across his shirt. The glass wall shimmered back into place, and Magnus repeated the process with the other cells, tossing a slab of flesh to the wendigo and werewolves. None of the monsters attacked or tried to escape, which Castiel couldn’t understand. They didn’t act cowed or afraid of the man, so how was he able to control them?

Magnus caught Castiel staring, and he smiled brightly. Something about the man’s self-assured composure set Castiel on edge. There were not many things that frightened the angel, but trapped as he was with an apparent madman he couldn’t read, Castiel became acquainted with another unpleasant sensation—dread.

* * *

Dean sped down the backwoods lane and slammed the brakes as soon as they reached the first crossroad. Scrambling out of the car, he went around to the trunk and retrieved the small box for summoning a demon.

Sam appeared at his shoulder and reached for the can of red spray paint. “Should we paint a devil’s trap?”

Dean shook his head. “If he’s our only shot at finding Philo, I’d rather not piss him off.” It was probably stupid—they no longer had Ruby’s knife, no easy way to defend themselves against the demon. Though Crowley _had_ helped them at the auction. More or less.

Taking a deep breath and hoping he wasn’t about to make a huge tactical error, Dean buried the box.

“So you two mooks are still alive,” a British voice said.

Dean whirled to find Crowley standing behind him, hands in the pockets of his posh suit and wearing a bored expression. The demon cast a casual glance over their wooded surroundings, then at the ground.

“Hm, no devil’s trap. Whatever could you possibly want then? I didn’t betray you back at the auction, by the way.”

“No, you just turned tail and ran when the shit hit the fan.”

Crowley shot Dean a condescending look. “Hello, demon, remember? I’m not in the self-sacrificing business you two lugs are.”

“We met Magnus,” Sam jumped in. “And saw the Colt, but he refused to give it to us. He then disappeared…with Cas.”

Crowley’s brows lifted. “Angel got himself into a spot of trouble, has he? And you called me for what? To be your new wingman?”

“Philo,” Dean bit out. “He knows how to contact Magnus, even told the son-of-a-bitch we were coming.” He pointed at Crowley. “You take us to Philo, and we make him tell us where Magnus is hiding.”

“Why would I help you twice when you royally screwed up the first time?”

“It’s not our fault one of _your_ pals sold us out to Meg,” Dean snapped.

Crowley scowled under his breath. “That whore. I’ll see her on my rack one of these days.”

“Guys, focus,” Sam interrupted. “Crowley, you want Lucifer dead, and Magnus _has_ the Colt, so we still have the same goal here.”

“Except now I’m blown. Lucifer knows I’m against him and I’m somewhere in the top-five on his to-do list. What I need to do is go into hiding.”

“All the more reason for you to help us,” Sam pressed. “The sooner we get the Colt, the sooner we can stop Lucifer, before he has a chance to find you. What have you got to lose?”

“Besides my reputation?”

Dean snorted. “Ours too.” He was suddenly grateful his father couldn’t see him now, consorting with demons.

“We’re hidden from Lucifer,” Sam continued. “So you might say it’s actually safer to stick with us for now.”

Only because they no longer had Ruby’s knife, which Dean was still smarting over.

Crowley regarded them disdainfully for a long moment before relaxing his shoulders and pulling his hands from his pockets. “Alright. The worm lives not far from here.”

“Great, let’s go.” Dean quickly dug up the box and tossed it back in the trunk. He slipped into the driver’s seat and tensed as Crowley climbed into the back. Dean gritted his teeth. That was Cas’s spot.

Sam shot him a sympathetic look. They were making do with a crappy situation. But Dean had better be able to get the stink of sulfur out of the leather when this was over.

“Head back to town,” Crowley instructed.

The car lurched as Dean rammed the gas, throwing him and Sam backward. Crowley grunted as he thudded into the back of Dean’s seat.

“I could always teleport you there,” he offered irritably.

“No thanks.” While they had a pressing need for urgency, Dean wasn’t willing to let the demon strand them somewhere. His fingers flexed in and out around the steering wheel as the Impala barreled down the road.

“We’ll find him, Dean,” Sam said quietly.

“I know.” Cas would be okay. He was an angel of the freaking Lord. And yeah, maybe his powers weren’t what they used to be, but the guy had survived death once already!

Dean’s knuckles whitened. He was going to kick Magnus’s ass once they found the douchebag.

Fifteen minutes later, they pulled up to a two-story, modern villa with sharp right angles and stark white paint that was a tint too bright in the afternoon sun. There was a balcony on the second floor that looked more like the observation deck of an aircraft carrier, and while most of the roof was flat, one section in the middle jutted up in two pointed triangles, giving the house a set of angry, forty-five-degree eyebrows.

“Demons living the high life, huh?” Dean said as they walked between a row of six-foot hedges.

Crowley made a disgruntled noise in his throat. “Philo is a wannabe,” he clipped.

“Whatever.” He nodded to Sam, who knelt in front of the door and pulled out his lock picks. He’d just stuck the pins in the keyhole when Crowley reached over his shoulder and turned the knob. The door snicked open without resistance. Sam tossed him a spiteful look.

“What? You think demons bother with conventional security when we can just flay trespassers?” He stepped around them and ventured inside.

Dean exchanged a commiserative glower with his brother before following. He pulled up short in the immediate foyer, brows arched at a mosaic fountain planted right in the middle of the space. Water bubbled down a brightly colored patchwork of tiles. Dean swept his gaze around the rest of the entrance, snorting at a painting of Jesus arm-wrestling a red-skinned, horned version of Satan. He wondered what the real Devil would think of that likeness. Or was that his true face behind whatever vessel he was wearing?

There was a parlor off to the right, filled with a bunch of hardbound books and a painting of dogs playing poker. Dean pursed his lips somewhat appreciatively of that one.

Sam poked his head down a hallway on the left and made a noise of disbelief. “I think there’s a bowling alley back there.”

Dean’s brows shot up and he went to take a look, letting out a low whistle. “Welcome to the lives of the rich and tacky.”

“Philo has no taste,” Crowley snarked, and then gave the boys a pointed look. “I would think this place was just your type.”

Dean bristled. Who was to say what good taste was anyway?

Crowley cast a disgusted look over the decor. “Philo likes to think he’s one of the big boys, but he’s out of his league.”

“Then why is Magnus friends with him?” Sam asked.

“I imagine for the same reason you and I are now friends—someone’s taking advantage of the other.”

Dean took a menacing step toward the demon. “We are not friends. Now let’s find Philo so we can get this crappy partnership over with.”

Crowley cocked his head. “My, I do love it when you get bossy.”

Before Dean could threaten bodily harm—an idle threat without Ruby’s knife—Crowley strode down one of the corridors toward the back of the house.

Sam moved closer to Dean and lowered his voice. “Which one do you think he is?”

Dean’s jaw tightened. As much as he’d like to think they were the ones using the demon, Crowley’s smarmy demeanor set every one of his nerves on edge. Who knew what the dick had up his sleeve.

“Just be careful,” Dean said, which wasn’t really the comforting response either had hoped for.

“Coming, boys?” Crowley called.

With grim looks, the brothers followed after him.

As they drew closer to the rear of the house, loud music started filtering down the hall. The three of them walked into a den and halted. Across the room was a ceiling-high shelf unit housing a surround sound entertainment system. To their right sat a bar counter and shelves of liquor, and next to it a pool table. Philo was lounging on a plush red sofa, back to them, but Dean recognized his greasy hair, which was currently flapping as the demon bobbed his head to the music. The moron had it blaring so loudly he didn’t hear their approach.

Crowley rolled his eyes as though disgraced, and with a snap of his fingers, the speakers crackled and exploded, killing the music. Philo leaped from the couch and whirled to face them.

Dean had a wisecrack all lined up, but it died on his tongue as he caught sight of the gangly wretch holding Ruby’s knife. Philo stared at them dumbstruck. Luckily Dean recovered first, marching up and snatching the knife from the stunned demon’s hand before he could react.

“Where did you get this?” he seethed.

Philo licked his lips, and then straightened his shoulders in an attempt to show bravado. “Crowley,” he clucked. “How far you’ve fallen, working with hunters. I hear there’s even a price on your head.”

“I’m not halfway down to where you are you little maggot, and will be back on top soon enough.”

“Shut up.” Dean stepped forward and angled Ruby’s knife at Philo. “How did you get this? You see Magnus recently? Where is he?”

Philo pursed his lips thoughtfully. “I hear there’s a bounty on all your heads, actually. Perhaps I should just call it in.”

Dean shoved him into the couch and leaned over, pressing the knife to his throat. “Yeah, you do that. Because we all know how Meg likes demons who want to cut deals.”

Philo’s confidence deflated slightly.

“Now,” Dean continued. “Did Magnus give this to you?”

The demon cast a wary glance at each of them and started fidgeting.

“Oh,” Crowley spoke up conversationally. “Don’t even try smoking out. I still have more juice than you to shove you back into that meatsuit.”

Dean exchanged an intrigued look with Sam. Could Crowley really do that?

Sam came around to stand behind his brother. “You told Magnus we were coming,” he said. “And you told him about Cas. So, what, that was your commission for helping him acquire an angel?” He nodded at the knife Dean now held.

Philo shrugged. “You refused to deal with me, so I went to someone who would.”

“Well, now here’s the new deal,” Dean said. “Tell us where Magnus took Cas, or I’ll gut you six ways to Sunday. And trust me, I spent forty years in Hell, so I can get creative.”

Philo scoffed.

“He’s not lying,” Sam said in a small voice, and even without seeing the expression on his younger brother’s face, Dean knew Sam wasn’t sure whether Dean was bluffing. And, if he were honest with himself, he wasn’t one hundred percent sure either. Cas was missing, and even though the angel usually took care of himself, Dean couldn’t help feeling somewhat protective of him. The guy rebelled against Heaven to help them, for crying out loud, not to mention pulling him from Hell before that. Dean owed Cas. More than that though, the angel had somehow become one of them. And if there was one thing that Dean would move heaven and earth for, it was family.

He pressed the tip of the knife against the hollow point of Philo’s throat. “You’ve heard of Alastair, haven’t you?”

The demon’s eyes widened a fraction and he swallowed hard, wincing as the blade nicked him. “Magnus’s house is in those woods—”

“We were just out there,” Dean growled, increasing the pressure. A trail of blood trickled down Philo’s neck. “Magnus isn’t keeping his collection in a ratty cabin. Last chance.”

Philo’s voice rose in pitch. “His mansion is just a few yards behind it! The cabin only serves as a greeting area.”

“We would have seen a mansion,” Sam said.

“It’s invisible!”

“Invisible?” he repeated in disbelief.

“Fine, we’ll do this the hard way,” Dean said, steeling himself for what came next. He may not have liked it, but they had few options at this point.

“It’s the truth!” Philo bleated. Jeez, Dean hadn’t even gotten to the torture yet; this guy would break easy. “Magnus knows all kinds of spells,” the demon rambled. “It’s how he’s stayed hidden all this time.”

Dean clenched his jaw. They had seen Magnus use some crazy magic, so perhaps it was possible there was a giant, invisible mansion out there and they just hadn’t seen it. “How do we get inside?”

“I don’t know, I swear!” Philo shot them pleading looks. “I only ever met him in the cabin.”

Dean glanced over his shoulder at Crowley. “Do you know how to break an invisibility spell?”

The demon shrugged his brows regrettably. “No.”

“Awesome.” He looked at Sam, who had no ideas either. Maybe they could call Bobby.

“That’s all I know,” Philo insisted. His gaze dropped to Ruby’s knife, and damn if his eyes didn’t gleam with desire even as the blade was pressed against his throat.

Dean felt a switch flip, a mask of deadly calm schooling his features. “You want this back, don’t you?”

Philo licked his lips. Dean leaned back slightly, only to lunge forward and ram the knife through the demon’s throat. The body jerked as orange skeletal flashes fritzed through his face and chest. Philo went limp, and Dean yanked the blade out.

“Now what?” Sam asked. “Even if we know where Magnus is, how are we supposed to get inside a mansion we can’t see?”

Dean cracked his neck, frustration coiling his muscles into knots. Invisible mansions, private zoos of supernatural creatures—he never thought the Apocalypse would seem run-of-the-mill in comparison.

“Well,” Crowley spoke up. “Philo may have had appalling tastes, but not all of his accumulations were worthless. Some of those hardbacks in the front parlor are real spell books.”

Sam straightened. “You think there’s a spell to counter Magnus’s invisibility shield?”

Crowley lifted his shoulders, appearing bored.

Dean gritted his teeth. Research, awesome. Cas was being held by some maniac, and they were going to stuff their noses in some smelly old books. But it was the only option they had.

“Then let’s get to it,” Dean growled, and stormed for the parlor.

_Hang on, Cas._


	6. Of Spells and Binding Rituals

 

Sam followed Dean into Philo’s “library,” which was a generous label for it. There were only two bookcases along the left wall, though they were each five feet wide and seven feet tall, full with solid rows of hardback books. The cases’ white plastic finish looked quite at odds with the ancient volumes. In front of a rectangular window sat a simple desk of the same material, its minimalist design resembling an oblong horseshoe. Philo’s sense of decor was a clash of color and period schemes, what with the futuristic furniture on one end, a black leather recliner on the other, and the brightly colored painting of dogs playing poker. Even Crowley looked sickened by the arrangement.

Sam thought Dean had also stopped short to gape at the garish parlor, but his older brother was staring dumbly at the bookshelves. Sam’s mouth turned down sympathetically. Give Dean a weapon and a monster, and he’d attack with skillful, single-minded purpose. In the face of research, however, he faltered.

Fortunately, this was an area Sam excelled at. He strode to the bookcases and scanned the spines. They were looking for a spell, so he dismissed the historical and lore texts for now, and pulled out a handful of grimoires and other books whose titles referenced magical rituals. He set a stack of six books on the desk and took a seat in a matching, white plastic chair. Swiveling, he passed a book to Dean, who finally snapped out of his stupor and retreated to the high-backed leather chair with the four-inch thick tome.

Sam arched a brow at Crowley, who rolled his eyes and snatched the second book off the stack. The demon went to lean against the wall with the dog painting as he flipped through the crinkly pages.

Sam turned his attention to _The Fourth Book of Cronius._ He hadn’t noticed Books One through Three in Philo’s collection, and desperately hoped the answer wasn’t in one of those. The grimoire was full of interesting material, such as various love potions—and lust potions—how to summon some scary, badass demons, and even how to create a pocket dimension. Sounded like a move from the Trickster’s playbook…hm, did the masquerading archangel take his cues from this book, or did he write it? Sam gave himself a mental shake. This was not helping with their current problem of breaking into an invisible mansion.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Dean fidgeting, flicking through the pages of his book roughly. To his older brother, research wasn’t action, and Dean needed to feel like he was doing _something_. Sam pushed the distraction aside and focused on the text in front of him. He knew they were doing all they could, and even though it was slow going, Sam wasn’t about to give up. Cas was depending on them.

Although, Sam was also hoping the angel would just escape from Magnus and pop in, looking no more worse for wear. Except that Cas wouldn’t be able to find them, and what if Magnus had taken his cell phone? He could always go to Bobby’s, and the old hunter would call Sam and Dean and tell them Castiel was fine. But Sam’s phone never rang, and he admitted the unlikelihood that it would.

Almost forty-five minutes later, Crowley closed his book and tossed it on the desk. Sam’s hand shot out to catch it before the heavy volume slid off the edge onto the floor. He shot Crowley a dirty look.

“I think I’ll do a perimeter check,” the demon said. “Make sure Philo wasn’t expecting guests. Not that anyone worth worrying about would associate with the lout.”

“Fine,” Dean snapped.

Rolling his shoulder, Crowley left the parlor. Sam wondered if he’d even be back. He’d helped them find Philo, which was all they’d asked, and Sam had expected the crossroads demon to go poof after that. Except it seemed he had nowhere to go, not since being put on Lucifer’s black list. Demons and hunters working together…Meg was right; it was the end of the world.

Dean slammed his book shut and dropped it on the floor with a thud. “Nothing.”

Sam cast a contrite look at the poorly treated text. Just because it didn’t have the information they needed at that moment, didn’t mean it wasn’t valuable.

“Here.” He handed Dean another volume, _St. Cyprion’s Rites_ , which his brother scowled at.

“What if the spell’s not in any of these books? What if there _is no spell_ at all?”

“There is, and it has it be,” Sam replied. Dean may not have had faith in research, but Sam did. They _would_ find a way to help Cas, because Winchesters didn’t accept defeat. Period.

Crowley returned then with a glass of brandy in hand.

“Seriously?” Dean growled.

“I’m sorry, did you want one?”

Sam bit back a sigh. “Why don’t you just take off now, Crowley?” he grumbled.

“And miss the chance to see where dear Magnus makes his bed? I think not.”

“Then put that down and help us find a damn spell.” Dean shoved _St. Cyprion_ at his chest, sloshing the demon’s drink down his suit.

Crowley glowered at him. “Watch it, Squirrel. I can still peel the skin off your face and leave you in decent enough shape to go after Lucifer.”

Dean pulled out Ruby’s knife. “Yeah? Try it.”

Sam wanted to yell that their bickering was not helping, but his mind latched onto a phrase his eyes had just read over—“ _Invisibility Cloak._ ” He quickly re-read the passage. “I think I found something!”

Dean spun toward him, Crowley forgotten. “What is it?”

“It’s a spell to reveal the unseen.” Sam set the open book on the desk and leaned over the page. “Basically, it doesn’t undo an invisibility spell, just lets the caster see around it.”

“Great, what do we need?”

“Uh, some Night Bloom Water Lilies, smoke from a hearth burning at sunset—”

“Are we making a spell or potpourri?”

Sam scowled and turned the page. His nose wrinkled at the last ingredient. “Uh, and an owl’s eyes.”

Dean made a face. “Seriously? All that crap is supposed to give us x-ray vision or something?”

Sam gestured vaguely at the book. “These ingredients probably represent the transition of phases, like day to night. And of course, an owl’s keen eyesight, all of which will shift our ability to see the invisible.”

Dean stared blankly at him for a moment. “You’re a nerd, and that sounds like a bunch of bull.”

“Moose is more or less correct,” Crowley spoke up as he dabbed a handkerchief over the wet spot on his suit. “Gold star for you.”

“Alright,” Dean snipped. “Then how the hell are we supposed to get all that? We can’t wait for sunset to light a fire.” He and Sam exchanged a knowing look, and then angled their gazes toward Crowley.

The crossroads demon huffed. “So I’m your errand boy now?”

Sam bit back an exasperated sigh. “Ultimate goal, remember?”

“Fine, I’ll get what you need.” He set the glass of liquor down and disappeared.

Dean turned back to Sam. “So how do we cast it?”

“Uh,” Sam glanced at the directions again. “Grind, stir, and light. But we have to do it within ten yards of the location of what’s invisible, something about being in range to tune to the proper frequency.”

Dean snorted. “If it’s invisible, how are we supposed to know if we’re in range?”

Sam’s brow furrowed. He had no idea. “Walk around until we bump into something?”

“That’s not funny.”

“Well, I don’t know, Dean. I’m doing the best I can here.”

Dean ran a hand over his hair. “Yeah, I know. I just don’t like the thought of what Magnus is doing to Cas while we’re stuck here playing Julia Child with flower petals and owl eyes.”

Sam’s brow quirked. “You know who Julia Child is?”

“Shut up.”

Sam tactfully returned his attention to the spell book, hiding a grin. He immediately sobered, however, with the thought of Cas. This spell would work; it had to. But then there was the problem of how they were going to go up against Magnus. The man’s repertoire of spells was beyond anything Sam and Dean had ever encountered. They’d have to rely on the element of surprise. That, and a crossroads demon.

Sam grimaced. This had the potential to go very, very badly.

* * *

If Castiel thought losing time was a terrifying feeling, having it tick by slowly while bound and shackled was worse. He could barely move, the chains were stretched so tautly. Even if he had thought to abandon his vessel, he couldn’t. Not only were the sigils trapping his true form, but he’d have nowhere to go if he did manage to leave—he couldn’t go back to Heaven, and he wouldn’t survive on the earthly plane for long, not with the other angels hunting him. He was trapped in every sense, and there was nothing he could do about it.

Rapping footsteps echoed from around the corner a moment before Magnus appeared. Castiel watched with detached curiosity as a second man followed, rolling a cart set with several glass jars, a bowl, and a dagger. Though Castiel’s senses were still weakened, once the assistant came closer, he recognized the slitted eyes marking him as a familiar. Those half-human, half-animal creatures usually attached themselves to a witch in service, but there was something…off about this one. His gaze was oddly blank, pupils cloudy as though the creature were blind, though he moved and opened the bottles with no difficulty.

Magnus was grinning, fingers steepled in anticipation. He stepped behind the cart and began mixing a variety of ingredients in the bowl. Castiel couldn’t determine what spell the man was concocting.

Picking up the knife, Magnus approached him. Castiel eyed the blade dispassionately; it wasn’t an angel blade and therefore couldn’t permanently damage him.

Magnus gripped his arm and tugged his sleeve up. Castiel attempted to wrench away, if only to show defiance against the magician’s machinations, but there was no slack in the chains to allow him movement.

Magnus laid the edge of the blade across the inside of Castiel’s forearm and sliced down. A distant sting of pain lanced through his vessel, felt a little more sharply than usual, likely due to his weakened state. Blood welled up, and the assistant scurried in to catch the flowing drops in the bowl. Castiel watched helplessly, knowing no good could come from collecting angel blood. But when he tried to stretch his grace to flow through the cut, he found the healing energy sluggish, almost unresponsive.

Magnus stepped back and studied the wound as though eagerly awaiting something. After a moment, he frowned and cocked his head. “Hm, it’s not healing instantly like I expected.” He swept his gaze over the walls. “That’s probably because of the sigils, I’m afraid.”

Castiel gritted his teeth. That, or due to his falling grace. He knew that with his slowly diminishing powers, it was only a matter of time before he would be unable to heal himself. But he had no intention of enlightening Magnus to that.

The magician shrugged blithely. “Don’t worry; once this is finished, the sigils will be unnecessary.”

The familiar set the bowl back on the cart, and Magnus moved to stand over it. Then he turned the dagger to his own palm and carved a fissure through his skin. Clenching a fist, he held it over the bowl and let a few viscous drops dribble into the contents.

Castiel stiffened involuntarily. Mixing blood…that was powerful magic. Manipulative magic as was most often the case. He couldn’t think of anything that could be used on an angel…but then, it wasn’t as though such spells had been tested. And with his weakened grace, cut off from the powers of Heaven, he was suddenly filled with a terrifying sense of foreboding.

Magnus reached under the cart and lifted a branding iron. One end of the metal was coiled into a complex, circular pattern, which he dipped in the blood mixture. After letting a few excess drops drizzle back into the bowl, the magician uttered an incantation, and the blood-coated rune began to glow. Castiel didn’t recognize the emblem, but he could feel the magic wafting from it, and it was strong, dark, defiling.

Magnus stepped forward again, and Castiel tried to jerk back, to break the chains that held him in one last feeble effort, but they didn’t budge.

“Now, this may be uncomfortable at first,” Magnus said amiably. “But I promise things will be much easier once it’s over.” Magnus tugged one side of Castiel’s shirt down, popping one of the buttons off and exposing bare skin. The burning iron cast a devilish gleam in the magician’s pupils.

Castiel’s heart began to pound beyond its normal rhythm. “Don’t—”

Magnus angled the brand down and pressed it into his chest, just under his collarbone. Castiel threw his head back, choking on a scream as flesh sizzled and searing pain plunged through his body. He felt the burning of his vessel, but it was nothing compared to the icy tendrils that followed. They stole through Jimmy’s body, chasing down Castiel’s true form, his grace, and hooking frigid claws into it.

Magnus took a step back, brows arching in pleasure. “Excellent. That’s it, don’t fight it.”

Castiel tried to retreat into himself, to pull his grace into a tight ball away from the forcefully encroaching chill.

_“Don’t fight it.”_ Magnus’s voice filled his head, echoing as though _inside_ him. He tried to escape, but everywhere he turned, the magician’s will was there, pushing, oppressing, driving him into an ever-shrinking corner.

He didn’t realize when he threw his awareness back into the vessel in an attempt to physically escape. His chest burned with malignant fire, muffling the throbbing in his arms as he thrashed uselessly against the chains.

He felt his strength failing, and Castiel sagged. He stared at the branding iron still in Magnus’s hand. The glow had dimmed, and now the metal was flaking crispy bits of darkened blood onto the floor. How could something so mortal be so undoing to one who had once been a mighty warrior of God?

A gray film began sliding over Castiel’s vision, muting the world. Panic spiked through him, only to be snuffed out a moment later by those icy talons curling into his grace, entangling him in a mesh of squeezing barbed wire. In the back of his mind, Castiel wished he could call on his brothers and sisters to rescue him, to mercifully end this nightmare. But even if death at their hands was preferable to this paralyzing agony, his will was slowly being leeched away.

_Don’t fight it._

His last thought was of Dean and Sam before every last bit of his essence slowly succumbed to numbness.

* * *

It was nearly half an hour before Crowley returned with all the ingredients.

“What took you so long?” Dean snarled.

The demon rolled his eyes. “It isn’t sunset anywhere right now except the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, so I had to find some miserable island, conjure a hearth, and light the fire.”

Sam’s brows lifted. Well, at least the demon was dedicated. He cleared his throat and gathered up the spell book. “Then let’s go.”

They piled back into the Impala and Dean gunned it for the cabin.

“What’s the plan?” Sam asked, fingers cramped around the grimoire. It would only reveal Magnus’s fortress; it wouldn’t give them a defense against the magician.

Dean was silent for a moment. “Magnus is only a threat with his spells. So we don’t let him speak.”

Sam huffed silently. Easier said than done.

They made it back to the cabin, and he and Dean stocked up on their typical hunt weapons, just to be on the safe side, and then waded into the thicket. They didn’t have to go far before the trees and undergrowth gave way to a large, barren acre that looked as though a tornado had flattened it.

“Think this is it?” Dean asked.

Sam cautiously approached the compressed reeds, stopping at the edge. He held his palm up and slowly pushed forward. Though he’d been expecting it, he still started when his hand touched something solid and grainy, though his eyes registered nothing was there.

He swallowed. “Uh, yep. This is it.” Sam backed up and started unpacking the spell’s components. He placed the water lily petals in a bowl and mashed them up. Nose scrunching in disgust, he added the owl eyes, fighting a surge of bile in the back of his throat as he squished them into the mixture.

Crowley watched with mild interest, lips twitching in amusement. “I didn’t take you for being squeamish there, Moose.”

Sam almost snapped at the demon to come do it himself, but he wanted to get it right. Lastly, he unscrewed the lid of a jar holding a thin wisp of smoke. Surprisingly, the moment he held it over the building spell, the smoke sloughed out like liquid into the bowl. Sam quickly mixed it in. The ingredients took on a pinkish dusty consistency.

Sam picked up the bowl and held it out. Dean came to stand next to him, and even Crowley inched closer.

_Here goes nothing._

Sam recited the spell, and the bowl’s contents began to crackle. A sickly sweet smell wafted up to burn his nostrils. With a loud pop, the powder spewed in their faces. Sam reeled back, dropping the bowl to hack into his sleeve as Dean cursed between his own coughs.

“What the hell, man?”

Crowley merely waved a hand in front of his face to clear the haze.

Sam sneezed into his sleeve. “It’s not my fault!”

“Crowley, if you poisoned us…” Dean growled.

The demon sighed. “After all this, you still don’t trust me? Ah, here we go.” He pointed toward the barren field.

Sam rubbed dust from his eyes and noticed the air several feet ahead was shimmering. The tree line in the background began to fold and undulate as a bright golden light spilled forth. It washed out in every direction like rippling water, replacing the barren acre with a three-story, brick-laden mansion, complete with beveled windows and creeping ivy.

They gaped for a brief moment before Dean rolled his shoulders. “Right, let’s do this.”

“Yes, good luck.”

Sam whirled on Crowley. “You’re not coming?”

“All of my actions have been to promote my own survival,” he said condescendingly. “So why would I go into a fortress that even an angel can’t escape?”

“All the more reason we could use your help,” Sam sputtered.

Crowley rolled his eyes. “I’ve helped you _plenty_. Now, I need to return to being _on the lam from Lucifer_.”

“But you said you wanted to see where Magnus was hiding!” Dean argued.

“Yes, and I’ve seen it. Lovely place. I’ll have to come back for the tour. So long, boys.” Crowley pivoted and was gone in a half-step.

“Crowley, get your ass back here!” Dean shouted, turning in a circle, but the demon was gone. “Dammit!”

“Dean!” Sam hissed. It’d be better if they didn’t let Magnus know they were right outside.

“Son-of-a-bitch.” Dean turned to Sam, gritting his teeth. “Let’s go.”

They approached the ornate front door. Sam almost pulled out his lock picks, but after Philo’s house, he simply tried the handle. It clicked smoothly and the door slid open. Guess when your house was invisible, you didn’t have to worry about locking it.

Sam lifted his brows at Dean. _Think it’s a trap?_

Dean drew his gun and rolled his shoulders. _Probably._

Sam pulled out his pistol, and they both strode inside.


	7. Please Don't Feed the Monsters

 

The entrance hall wasn’t as huge as Sam would have guessed, though it definitely looked more like the type of place he expected Magnus to live, rather than that dinky cabin. Full wainscoting of cherry wood paneled the walls, and polished hardwood floors branched down three separate corridors. Mounted five feet apart along the walls, wrought iron light fixtures with metal wings supported bulbs on the top and bottom, encased in fractured, spider webbed glass. They cast a soft incandescence over large paintings in gilded bronze frames that lined the passageways.

“Think Magnus keeps his zoo on the second or third floor?” Sam whispered.

“I don’t know, but let’s check the ground level first.” Dean cocked his head for them to take the corridor on the right.

Guns angled up at the ready, they crept silently down the hall. Magnus seemed to have a preference for mythological art works. Brilliant reds, oranges, and yellows drew Sam’s eye to a painting of a phoenix spreading massive wings to the sky as fire licked its tail. Its head was arched back, beak splayed wide as though in a scream. A few feet further hung a canvas depicting a Minotaur in a labyrinth, having cornered a scantily clad human and ripping him to pieces.

Sam tore his gaze away from the grotesque piece. This hallway seemed to stretch forever, branching into other corridors and rooms; how were they going to find Cas?

A guttural growl was the only warning Sam had that something had come up behind him. He whirled, squeezing the trigger of his gun. The report cracked his eardrums, and the creature that had been about to slash elongated claws across his back jerked away when the bullet tore through its shoulder. The monster snarled, shaking off the wound as though it were nothing, and Sam faltered for a split moment—the sharp fangs and nails told him werewolf, but the eyes didn’t gleam an animalistic amber. Rather, they were an odd, opaque gray. Was it blind?

The monster locked its gaze on Sam, answering that question, and with a vicious growl charged. Before Sam could get his silver blade out, another shot rattled his head in the small space, and the werewolf dropped to the floor with a heavy thud. He twisted to find Dean standing a few feet back, a trail of smoke dissipating from the barrel of his gun.

“Forget to load silver bullets, Sammy?” he asked as he walked up to kick the dead werewolf.

Sam scowled. Silver bullets didn’t grow on trees, and he tried not to use them unless they were expecting to go up against a werewolf. Which he _hadn’t_.

“Think it escaped from Magnus’s zoo?”

Dean glanced up and down the hall, but the area seemed quiet. “Dunno. Where’d it come from though?” The corridor stretched for almost thirty feet behind them without connecting to another one, so how had it managed to sneak up on them so quietly?

Eyes narrowing, Dean retraced their steps and stopped at a twenty-four by thirty-eight painting of a manticore, which appeared to be hanging off the wall an inch. Dean gripped the wainscoting and pried the panel back, revealing a stairway that led down. He exchanged a look with Sam. Most likely that’s where the werewolf had come from in order to have gotten the drop on him like that.

Sam switched his gun to his left hand and pulled out his silver knife with his right, in case there were more surprises waiting below. With any luck though, if Magnus’s zoo was down there, that’s where they’d find Cas.

Sam nodded, and the brothers ventured into the secret passage.

* * *

Dean’s muscles coiled tighter with each step into the basement. He didn’t like underground spaces; not enough escape routes. He and Sam reached the bottom, which widened into a broad room with stone walls lit by more iron fixtures. Three-quarters of the space was taken up with a row of large, glass enclosures with figures inside. Dean sucked in a breath. “Zoo” turned out to be an apt description for what Magnus was keeping down there.

He approached the first glass case. Three ghouls were inside: two sat along the back wall while the third leaned against the front windowpane. His lip curled, and hot breath fogged a spot on the glass. Every aspect of his body language screamed a violent craving for human flesh, but the eyes were a queer, pewter gray.

“Dean,” Sam whispered, jolting him away from staring at the disturbing ghoul.

“What?” Had he found Cas? Dean’s chest tightened at the thought of his friend in a cage like this, put on private display for some madman.

But Sam was staring at the ghouls. “The werewolf had the same eyes.”

“Yeah, so?” Dean started craning his neck around, expecting Magnus to come down those stairs any minute, or for another monster to get free of its cage.

“So you don’t find that weird?”

“Of course I do, but it’s not important right now, Sam.” He backed away from the ghouls’ cell, turning to face the one across the aisle. It held a Djinn. So did the one next to it, only Dean had never seen one with _blue_ markings. They both sneered at him. And they both had milky gray eyes. Okay, something was seriously wrong with these monsters.

Dean cleared his throat nervously. “Let’s find Cas.”

The zoo turned out to be much larger than he’d suspected. Like the hallways upstairs, aisles branched out in labyrinthine directions, every single one containing glass displays spaced along the stone walls. And most of them were occupied. Magnus must have had at least one of every monster the Winchesters had ever encountered—and some they hadn’t. A sickening feeling wormed its way through Dean’s gut as they crept deeper into the vault. This was obscene.

Not only that, but all the creatures had lackluster gray eyes. Dean would have thought they were all blind, except they kept their trained gazes on him and Sam as the two wove through the exhibits. Though none raged against the glass in an effort to get to them, there was still a predatory menace in their postures. Dean was starting to get freaked out. Couldn’t they easily break that glass if they wanted? And then a swarm of monsters could come rushing down on him and Sam?

Dean swallowed hard and mentally berated himself. _Don’t get twitchy._ He firmed up his grip on the gun, careful to keep his trigger finger steady.

Sam started to turn the next corner but jumped back. Dean tensed, braced for an attack. His brother flicked his eyes for him to take a look and mouthed, “ _Magnus_.”

Pressing his back to the stone wall, Dean peeked around the corner at a short section of stone corridor that didn’t hold any glass cages, but what appeared to be storage cabinets set into the walls. Fifteen feet down, Magnus was standing in front of an open one with a rolling cart, cleaning some array of implements.

A steely resolve settled over Dean and he flashed Sam a meaningful look. Nodding, his brother slipped his gun back into his jacket and held up the silver knife.

Dean drew a quarter from his pocket and sent it clinking across the stone floor. Then with their backs pressed against the wall, they waited for Magnus to come investigate.

The short man’s footsteps fell with a light tap-tap across the cement. The moment his head of smoothed back hair came into view, Sam grabbed his collar and yanked him around, slamming his chest against the wall and pressing the blade to his neck. “Say one word and I cut your throat,” Sam snarled.

Magnus glanced at them, a single brow angled up in mild surprise.

“Take us to Cas,” Dean said, voice dangerously low.

The magician sighed and pointed a finger to head back around the corner. Sam tugged him away from the wall, keeping the knife precariously balanced at his jugular, and shoved him forward.

They passed the cart with the items he’d been cleaning, and Dean’s stomach clenched at the trace of blood on a dagger. It probably wasn’t Cas’s though…he could only be hurt by an angel blade.

Magnus led them around another corner, passing a cell with two werewolves, when Dean pulled up short. The aisle came to an end thirty feet down with a set of iron cells on both sides. And in between them, held up by chains suspended from the ceiling, hung a familiar, dark haired figure in a trenchcoat.

Dean heard Sam take in a sharp breath, but he was already sprinting down the passage. Castiel was sagging in the manacles, ankles bent awkwardly on the floor, chin slumped against his chest.

“Cas!” Dean skidded to a stop, noticing the warding painted over the walls, floor, and ceiling. He let out a few choice expletives as he checked to see if Cas had a pulse. Did angels normally? If not, how was he supposed to tell if Castiel was alive? He was saved the panicked debate, however, when his fingers found a slow but steady throbbing.

Dean wanted to beat the crap out of Magnus right then, but first he needed to focus on getting Cas out of those chains. Which he found were also carved with sigils. There was a cut on his forearm that had crusted over with dried blood, and an image of that dagger Magnus had been cleaning flashed through Dean’s mind. _Dammit, why wasn’t Cas healing?_

Then his gaze dropped down to some kind of rune _burned_ into the angel’s chest. The intersecting lines were black and thick, raised like unguent scars, and the skin around them was puckered an angry red. A cord snapped in Dean, letting out a surge of boiling ire.

He whirled on Magnus. “You son-of-a-bitch.”

Sam shot him a silent warning, and then gave Magnus a small shake. “Where’s the key?”

The man opened his mouth, but then gestured that his lips were sealed and shrugged helplessly, glancing at the knife poised against his throat. Dean took a menacing step toward him, and froze when a staccato clapping sounded from his right. His mouth dropped open as a second Magnus stepped out from a shadowed alcove.

“My, my, you two are more resourceful than I gave you credit for.”

Dean spun back to the captured Magnus in bewilderment. With a grin, the magician’s features refracted and morphed into those of another man. One with another set of eerie gray eyes. _Dammit!_

The shapeshifter elbowed Sam in the stomach, twisting away from the knife. Dean raised his gun, which was suddenly wrenched from his hand by a spell he hadn’t even heard Magnus cast. He went for one of his knives, desperate to silence the magician, but at another string of Latin, an invisible force smashed into his chest and propelled him into the air. He smacked the wall, pain radiating down his spine, and crumpled. Black spots momentarily blurred his vision, but he could make out the Goliath shape of his brother stabbing the shapeshifter in the chest.

Magnus raised his voice in another spell, and Dean tried to shout a warning to Sam. His vision cleared in time to see his brother go flying through the air. Sam collided with Dean, knocking him back on the ground and punching the air from his lungs. Gasping, he tried to roll out from under Sam’s flailing limbs. A loud of creak of metal announced an iron door slamming shut, and when Dean managed to look up, he and Sam were behind bars.

Magnus stepped up to the shapeshifter’s body, Sam’s knife still embedded in his chest, and sighed. “I liked that one.” He walked up to the cell and crossed his arms. “I’ll also miss that werewolf, though I have to say it was fun to watch you two go at it. Quite impressive. And I’ve got to hand it to you for getting past the invisibility spell. You are a determined bunch, aren’t you?”

Dean grabbed the bars. “I’m gonna rip your head off, you son-of-a-bitch.”

Magnus tutted. “Such language from kids these days. Oh!” He beamed, and another quick incantation fell from his lips. Ruby’s knife flew from Sam’s jacket, through the bars, and into Magnus’s hand. “I am happy to have this back.”

“I thought it was payment to Philo for luring Cas to your cabin,” Sam said.

“It was, but I figured I’d get it back from him eventually. The demon doesn’t know how to preserve his acquisitions.”

“Or his life, since we killed him,” Dean growled.

Magnus’s brows lifted, though he didn’t seem perturbed. “That’s a shame; he did have his uses.” He turned his back on the Winchesters to face Castiel.

Sam inched his hand toward his jacket where Dean caught a glint of his gun. But at a single word from Magnus, the pistol wrenched from Sam’s grasp and clattered across the floor to the other side of the room. Two more incantations and a wave of his hand, and the rest of their weapons jerked from their persons to fling across the room.

Magnus gave them a patronizing look over his shoulder. “Honestly, sports.”

Dean ground his teeth together. Sam shot him a frantic, “ _what now?_ ” Dean grabbed the bars and shook them, but of course the iron didn’t budge.

Magnus walked up to Castiel, crossing his arms as he appraised the unconscious angel.

“What did you do to him?” Dean demanded.

Magnus pursed his lips. “Yes, he does seem to be having a slight adverse reaction to the binding.”

Dean and Sam exchanged an alarmed look. _Binding?_

“What binding?” Sam pressed.

“I bound his essence to me,” Magnus explained conversationally. “As I do all my creature acquisitions. Makes them easier to manage. He should recover though.”

Dean’s muscles tensed. No way; how was binding an angel even possible? And what the hell did “adverse reaction” mean? He glanced at his brother again, who looked equally freaked.

Magnus made a few thoughtful noises under his breath before tucking a finger under Cas’s chin and lifting it. “Time to wake up.”

Castiel’s eyelids fluttered, and Magnus waited patiently for the few moments they took to open. Dean’s blood ran cold. Cas’s normally blue eyes had faded to light gray. Not quite as opaque as the other monsters’ had been, but definitely dulled.

“Cas?” he called worriedly.

Castiel’s head tipped back and his dazed eyes gradually focused on the Winchesters. Dean felt a thrill of hope as a flicker of blue flashed in his irises.

“Cas?”

Castiel’s eyes widened a fraction in recognition, and he suddenly struggled to get his feet under him. “Dean? Sam?”

Dean winced at how hoarse his voice sounded. “Yeah, right here, buddy.”

Magnus frowned and cupped Cas’s chin, forcing him to look back at him. “Never mind them. I want you to show me your wings.”

Dean stiffened. _What?_

Sam sputtered, now gripping the bars of their prison as well.

Castiel’s jaw clenched as he was locked in a staring contest with the magician. His shoulders trembled as though straining against some invisible force, and Dean’s fingers cramped around the bars as he watched a storm of gray and blue clash in Castiel’s eyes.

“Reveal your wings,” Magnus repeated.

Cas’s chest rose as he inhaled sharply. “No,” he ground out. And with that declaration, a little more blue surged over the gray.

Dean almost grinned in triumph, but even though it seemed Cas had just won a significant victory over something, they were all still trapped.

Magnus stepped back, his normal hunky-dory expression replaced with confusion and a trace of irritation. “Well, that’s unexpected. You’re stronger than I thought.” After a moment of consideration, the tension loosed from his shoulders and he smiled again. “But then, that only makes you a more valuable specimen.”

Dean was about to lob a slew of curses at the man, when Magnus suddenly spread his hand across Castiel’s head and started uttering a spell. Cas’s coiled muscles slackened and he slumped again. The blue fizzled out from his eyes as they hardened into that ghostly gray.

“Get away from him!” Dean yelled.

“Show me your wings,” Magnus said more forcefully.

“Don’t do it, Cas!” Sam shouted, but the angel didn’t seem to hear him. His gaze was distant now, staring up without seeing.

The space behind Castiel flickered with slivers of light that streamed up and out, tracing the contours of feathers. Dean gasped as the shapes coalesced into two large, very tangible wings. He’d only seen shadows of Cas’s wings once before, back in the barn when they’d first met. He hadn’t thought much about them since, figuring they were like otherworldly specters.

But now he was faced with an incredibly majestic display of actual wings. They were charcoal gray along the base, deepening in shade toward the exterior as though splotched with ebony rivulets that ran into a sea of dark pinions tipped in obsidian crescents. As the wings shifted subtly, runnels of iridescent silver seemed to streak through the woven feathers.

Dean caught Sam’s gaze briefly and found an equally mystified expression on his brother’s face. Cas had wings…real wings.

Magnus spluttered. “What _is_ this?” He circled Castiel, mouth moving silently as he gaped at the wings. His hand reached out to touch one, but his fingers curled back at the last moment. He stormed back around to face Castiel, gripping the angel’s chin and yanking him roughly to meet his gaze. “What have you done to your wings?”

Dean and Sam exchanged bewildered looks. What was he talking about? Those wings looked damn impressive to them.

Castiel merely stared blankly as though not even hearing him. Magnus pinched his jaw tighter, hard enough to bruise a human. “What happened to your wings?”

Castiel’s voice was nearly a rasp as the answer seemed to be forcefully extracted from him. “Hell.”

Magnus took a step back. “You visited Hell? Hm, yes, that makes sense. Tarnished by the pit.”

Dean stiffened. _What?_

“What are you talking about?” Sam demanded, able to voice the question Dean was currently choking on.

Magnus shot them a vexed look. “An angel’s wings are supposed to be white. These…” He ran a finger along a Stygian pinion. “Are filthy.” He made another displeased noise in his throat.

Dean felt Sam’s startled gaze latch onto him, but he couldn’t take his eyes off Castiel, the one who’d gotten him out of Hell. His _friend_. And Dean had no idea how that miraculous feat had affected the angel. He just assumed that since Cas was powerful enough to rescue Dean, the angel was invulnerable. Except now Dean was looking at an unconscious, burned angel with _tarnished_ wings, and he realized just how much Cas had gone through for them.

Magnus tapped a finger against his chin. “I had hoped to try several spells with angel feathers, but now I have no idea how the stain will affect them.” He shrugged dispassionately. “I’ll just have to experiment.” He reached behind Castiel. The angel suddenly went rigid, though no awareness showed in his lifeless eyes.

“Wait, what—” Sam started, but Magnus had already yanked up. Castiel’s body jerked soundlessly, and Magnus drew his hand back, now clutching a fistful of feathers.

“You son-of-a-bitch!” Dean shook the cage bars, jolting his elbows.

Magnus ignored him, stroking the feathers in his hand, shoulders nearly quivering with giddiness. “You may return them now.”

Castiel sagged, and his wings flickered out of sight. Magnus had a spring in his step as he strode away, humming softly “Earth Angel,” and leaving the Winchesters forgotten.


	8. The Many Uses of Feathers

 

Sam was shaking with fury as Magnus walked away with a handful of Cas’s feathers. The angel was hanging limply from the chains again, and Dean was shouting at him to wake up.

As soon as Magnus rounded the corner and was out of sight, Sam pulled his lock picks from his pocket, thankful that the magician hadn’t divested him of those when he’d magically disarmed them. He went to the cell’s lock and leaned against the bars so he could see. Then he inserted the tension wrench in the lower portion of the keyhole and torqued the cylinder, trying to figure out which way it needed to turn to unlock. Once he detected the slight give, he increased the pressure and inserted the pick in the top half of the lock, raking the pins to see which ones were the most difficult to spring up.

“Cas, dammit, come on!” Dean smacked his palm against the iron bars. Taking a deep breath, he ran a hand down his face. “Hurry, Sam.”

Dean didn’t need to tell him that, but working a lock from this angle wasn’t exactly easy. Plus, the thing was practically medieval with its bulky size. Sam twisted around to get better leverage for maintaining proper tension in order to set the pins.

A low moan momentarily distracted him, and they both whipped their heads up.

“Cas!” Dean called.

The angel lifted his head and blinked blearily at them, and there was once more a tint of natural blue in his eyes, though it was far from bright. “Dean…Sam.”

“Yeah,” Dean said, sounding relieved.

Sam was too; he’d been horrified when he saw Cas’s eyes the same color as every other monster in the place. He figured it was part of the spell—part of the _binding_ —that let Magnus control his “acquisitions.” A concept that made Sam’s stomach churn.

“Just hang in there,” Dean continued. “Sam’s working on this lock and we’ll have you out in no time.”

Cas mumbled something in response, but Sam didn’t hear it as a curse slipped from his mouth when he felt all the pins drop back down.

“Take it easy, Sammy.” Dean’s voice remained calm, though his expression belied his growing anxiety. He was probably trying not to agitate Cas. The angel looked ashen, eyes half-closed and a thin sheen of sweat glistening his forehead. And that ugly, festering brand on his chest.

Sam stuck the tension wrench and pick back in the lock and tried again, but after another ten minutes the pins reset. “Dammit!”

“What’s the problem?” Dean hissed under his breath, impatience leaking into his tone.

“The pick is too small, or the pins are too large. I can’t maintain the proper torque.” Sam ran a hand through his hair, wracking his brain for another approach. “I need something stronger. Look for anything pointy but sturdy.”

“No, really? Because it’s not like I’ve never picked a lock before.”

Sam bit back a scowl. Dean masked his worry with humor and sarcasm, so Sam wouldn’t take it personally. They needed to focus on the problem, not on biting each other’s heads off. Unfortunately, Sam couldn’t see anything around their cell. Aside from their weapons scattered along the other side of the aisle and the dead shapeshifter leaking blood over the concrete, the dungeon was more or less immaculate.

“Dean, can you help me grab the shapeshifter’s body? Maybe he’s got something on him.”

Dean made a face, but knelt down and stretched his arm through the bars. Sam strained as well, but his fingers only managed to graze the monster’s shoe. He swore again. Honestly, he was getting as bad as Dean.

“Sam,” Castiel croaked.

Both brothers straightened to look at him. Cas could barely lift his head, and for a moment Sam thought he’d fallen unconscious again. But then he noticed Cas was rotating his wrist ever so slightly against the cuffs. Was he trying to signal something? Point somewhere? Sam darted his gaze across the ground, but couldn’t see anything they could use.

There was a feather on the floor near Cas’s feet, an escaped plume from the bunch Magnus had ripped out. Sam narrowed his eyes when he saw it twitch. The tip then fluttered, and suddenly the quill slid across the floor, though there was no breeze in the underground chamber. Sam shot his arm out to snag it.

Dean blinked. “Uh, Cas…” His brow furrowed, clearly not thinking much of the feather.

Sam rubbed his fingers along the vane, surprised at how crisp it was. Magnus had said Cas’s wings were dirty, but it sure didn’t seem that way. In fact, the flat, ebony side felt like satin, and the splays of charcoal branching up from the downy barbs near the shaft looked more like rain-splattered brushstrokes of watercolor. Sam turned the feather upside down and pinched the quill, finding it as strong as steel. He shot Cas a startled look. The angel was breathing heavily, but had managed to keep his gaze locked on Sam, a hopeful question in his fading eyes.

“Thanks, Cas,” he said, and turned back to the lock.

Dean looked as though he was ready to make a disparaging joke, but one glance at Castiel, whose chin had dropped to his chest again, and he kept silent.

Sam jiggled the tension wrench and used the feather’s quill to push the pins. Five minutes later the lock clicked open and he burst into a triumphant grin as the door swung open.

“Atta boy, Sammy!” Dean surged out the door and hurried to Cas, grasping his face and lifting it. The angel’s eyes were closed. “Cas, can you hear me?”

Sam attacked the manacles with the feather and tension wrench. One click, and Cas’s right arm dropped. Dean ducked under to support his weight while Sam switched to pick the left lock.

A shudder rippled through Castiel’s body, and he lolled his head back, eyelids sluggishly cracking open. “Dean?” he murmured.

“Right here, Cas.”

The other shackle fell off and Sam caught him before his weight could drag Dean down too. “We gotcha.”

“Sam?”

“Yeah. Thanks for the feather.” He tried to smile at the angel, but it came out more of a grimace. Castiel was in bad shape. Sam had no idea what effect ripping feathers from his wings would cause, but it probably wasn’t something he could just walk off. There was a little more blue in his eyes again, which was a relief. They needed to do something about that horrific brand on his chest though. Magnus said Cas was having an adverse reaction to it, whatever the hell _that_ meant.

Dean let Sam take most of Castiel’s weight while he darted around the aisle scooping up their weapons. How nice of Magnus to just leave them lying around. Except Ruby’s knife. Sam’s jaw clenched. What were the odds of getting it back a second time?

Dean pocketed the knives and passed Sam his gun before bracing his shoulder under Cas again. Then the three of them started shuffling down the passage in search of the exit.

“I don’t suppose you can zap us out of here?” Dean asked.

Sam shot his brother a pointed look over Castiel’s head. “Dean, he’s missing a bunch of feathers. Not to mention Magnus probably has the whole ‘zoo’ warded. I don’t think flying is an option.”

“I was just checking.”

Castiel let out a raspy breath. “I’m sorry.”

Dean backpedaled apologetically. “No, don’t worry about it.”

“Did you…find the Colt?” he wheezed.

“That can wait.”

Castiel’s brow creased, but he fell silent as it seemed he needed to concentrate more on breathing.

They passed by the glass vivariums, the residents caged inside eyeing them with curling lips and angled heads, despite a cold steel in their pupils. Sam couldn’t help but glance down at Cas’s face, and his chest tightened; there was still a worrying trace of gray in the angel’s eyes.

The further they got from the Enochian sigils, however, the stronger Cas seemed to get. He leaned less heavily on Sam and Dean, and his shoes scuffed less across the floor with each step. They made it to the stairway and up into the first floor corridor. The werewolf’s body had been cleared, and the place seemed vacant. Hopefully Magnus was on the opposite end of the mansion experimenting with his spells.

Dean glanced up and down the hall. “Uh, remember which way we came in?”

Sam thrust his chin right. “That way. We passed the hydra painting.”

They moved cautiously, Sam and Dean with their guns out in one hand, and the other grasping Cas’s arm or elbow. The angel was mostly walking by himself, though somewhat unsteadily.

“You should find the Colt,” he said.

“We’ll come back for it,” Dean replied.

“This could be your only chance.”

“We know how to find this place now,” Sam argued. “We need to get you out of here first.”

Castiel’s face pinched with regret. “I’m slowing you down. The Colt is more important—I can find my own way out.”

“Would you shut up?” Dean growled over his shoulder.

Cas stopped short. “ _Dean_.”

He and Sam froze. Up ahead, two men stepped into the hall. They pulled their lips back, and a series of razor teeth slit out from their gums. Shit, vampires.

Dean grabbed Cas’s arm and hauled him into a side room. Sam rushed after them, slamming the doors behind him. A minute later they thudded as the vampires threw themselves against the wood. Dean snatched a javelin off the wall and slipped it through the handlebars. The doors juddered under another battering. Sam spotted a four-foot-tall gold statue of an Egyptian jackal to the left and started dragging it in front of the doors. Grabbing the sculpture’s pointed ears, Dean heaved also. The heavy idol thunked in front of the doors, thoroughly bracing them against the vampires’ impacts.

Sam staggered back a step, and then whipped his gaze around for Cas. The angel had one hand braced on a jade marble pillar, but at least was standing on his own. He then spared a moment to survey the den they’d taken refuge in. A seven-foot-wide hearth across from the doors had a fire crackling in it. Did that mean Magnus used this room often? Sam swallowed nervously.

There were four marble columns erected near the four corners of the large space. It was full of antiquities, just like every other inch of the mansion. There was a Chinese terra cotta warrior in one corner, ceremonial masks hung on the walls, and glass tables with weapon display stands showing off a variety of blades. There wasn’t another exit, but it sure was fortunate Magnus kept his priceless _weapons_ out for anyone to nab.

The brothers went to survey the collection of knives. Sam let out a noise of disbelief and snatched up Ruby’s knife. His fingers cramped around the hilt; he’d be dammed if he lost this one more time. Dean grabbed a katana off the wall and tested the blade’s weight.

“This should take a vamp’s head off.” He paused to look at one of the other daggers on the glass table, a bulky blade that looked to be made from an animal’s jawbone, edges serrated with teeth. “Wonder if this has any special powers to take out monsters,” he commented.

Another thud reverberated through the closed doors, rocking the jackal.

“Stick with the Japanese sword,” Sam said, tucking Ruby’s knife safely in his jacket and grabbing a weapon with a longer blade off the table.

The doors suddenly slammed open, splintering the javelin and throwing the Egyptian idol to the ground. Two vamps charged in, and Sam barely had a chance to raise his short sword in defense before one barreled into him, lifting his feet off the floor and slamming him into the wall. The nose of an Aztec mask jabbed painfully into his shoulder blade.

Dean swung the katana at the second vampire, but the monster ducked underneath the brandished blade and punched the hunter in the jaw. Dean buckled under the force, dropping the sword to catch his fall. The vamp grabbed him by the lapels and threw him into the air. He crashed into the display of knives, scattering the blades.

“Dean!” Sam was still grappling with the first vampire, his sword the only thing keeping the monster’s fangs at bay as they snapped for his jugular. He couldn’t get the leverage to pull the blade out enough for a good swing to decapitate it.

The other vamp was advancing on Dean, who had yet to shake off his daze. Then Castiel was there, having snatched up the katana. He arced it in one clean sweep that slid through muscle and vertebrae. Blood splattered a Medusa painting, and the vamp’s head plunked to the ground beneath it, mirroring the decapitated image above. The vampire’s body crumpled.

Sam was still trying to push his sword into the remaining vamp’s neck when the monster suddenly pulled back, releasing him. He staggered as the weight he’d been fighting against vanished. The vampire backed up to the broken doors where Magnus walked in.

He looked around the room and tsked unhappily. “Look at this mess.” He nudged the toppled jackal with his buffed shoe. “Do you have any idea how rare and valuable some of these things are? Of course you don’t. Hunters are barbarians.”

“ _We’re_ barbarians?” Dean seethed as he pushed himself to his feet. “You keep monsters as friggin’ pets!”

Magnus shook his head at the ceiling. “I preserve the unique and extraordinary, whereas you would wipe the planet of all things supernatural if you could.”

“Preserve?” Sam repeated. “Looked more like you were torturing an angel.”

Magnus’s gaze fixed on Castiel. After a moment, he frowned and spoke in a lower voice as though to himself. “I don’t understand why the binding didn’t take. It worked on every other creature.” He flicked a ruminative look between Cas and the subdued vampire. “But perhaps it’s because you’re a higher being than earthly monsters. I’ll have to rework the spell.”

“Like hell you will,” Dean snarled, putting himself in front of Cas, even though the angel was the one holding the katana. Sam also stepped closer to them.

“Come on, sport. You two are no match for me. Though I am curious how you managed to get out of that cell.”

“You shouldn’t underestimate us,” Sam warned, gripping his sword tighter. Magnus and the vampire were standing in front of their exit, but if they could just manage to incapacitate them, the Winchesters and Castiel could make their getaway.

Magnus noticed Sam’s gaze and glanced over his shoulder at the broken doors. “Hm.” He waved a hand as an incantation fell from his lips. The air shimmered and suddenly the doors were gone, replaced with a solid paneled wall.

Sam’s jaw nearly dropped. Crap, now what?

Dean took a menacing step forward. “You realize you’re outnumbered now.”

Magnus scoffed. “You know, you two are getting tiresome. Maybe you could take down my vampire, but I could utter any number of spells before you did.” He crossed his arms, tucking a fist under his chin. “Shall I set your blood instantly boiling until it fountains out of every orifice in your bodies? Or perhaps remove all your bones. Let’s see how long you last in a fight with limbs of jelly.”

Sam’s spine went rigid and he shot Dean a panicked look, hoping his brother was already working on a plan for getting out of this.

“Stop,” Castiel said hoarsely. He moved out from behind Dean, the katana lowered toward the floor. The angel’s mouth was pressed into a thin line, and there was a steely look of determination that normally would have reassured Sam, but this time it set his nerves on edge.

“If I agree to stay, will you let the Winchesters take the Colt and go?”

Dean’s expression went slack as he whirled on Cas. “ _What?_ ”

“Cas, no,” Sam hissed.

Castiel ignored them, instead meeting Magnus’s gaze. “Well?”

Dean grabbed Cas roughly by the arm and yanked him back. “What the hell are you doing?”

“We’re trapped,” the angel replied gruffly. “A compromise seems in order.”

“Leaving you here is not an option,” Dean growled.

Cas looked away, and if it were possible, seemed to scowl with a measure of exasperation befitting Dean. “You must. Killing Lucifer is of utmost importance…which I won’t be able to help you with for much longer.”

Sam nearly sputtered. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

For a moment, Castiel’s eyes filled with a deep sadness that surprised Sam, for he often didn’t see such emotion from the guarded angel. “I’m _falling_ ,” he whispered, enunciating the word with bitterness. “I can’t protect you anymore, can’t even rescue you from this situation. It’s better I stay if it means you can take the Colt. It will be of more use against Lucifer.”

Sam had never seen such depth of self-loathing in the angel, and he wasn’t sure where it was coming from.

Dean looked as though he were going to explode in a fit of rage; he was gripping Castiel’s coat sleeve so tight his hand was shaking. “I’m not trading you for a damn gun.”

“But it’s what you came for.”

Sam nearly choked. “ _Cas_ , we came to rescue _you_.”

The angel quirked a brow in one of his classic, confused expressions. Sam was flabbergasted. Did Castiel really not know how important he was to them? And not just as a powerful ally against the Apocalypse, but as a friend? Heck, the guy was practically family at this point. But then, when your own family had put you on their hit list, Sam could understand why Cas had a hard time understanding exactly what he meant to them. And maybe they’d emphasized the “powerful ally” part of their relationship a bit too much, ignoring that he was indeed slowly falling because he’d chosen to help them. But that didn’t mean the Winchesters were just going to discard him like expired produce.

Magnus cleared his throat. “I admit I find this somewhat fascinating. How did you two schmucks manage to leash an angel with such level of devotion? You don’t even have him bound to you.”

“He’s not a pet!” Sam snapped. Normally he was the level-headed one and Dean went off the rails when those he cared about were threatened, but Sam was beginning to feel that blood-boiling rage. After everything Magnus had done to Cas, the angel was willing to subject himself to more. And all because he thought the Colt was more _useful_ than he was.

“Dean, Sam,” Castiel ground out. “Please.”

Dean tightened his fist around the angel’s sleeve. “No way.”

Magnus let out a heavy sigh and snapped his fingers. The katana wrenched out of Cas’s hand and levitated in the air to hover at Dean’s throat. Sam stiffened, muscles tensed to try wresting the blade away, but before he could, the vampire by the door had moved and grabbed his arms, pinning them behind his back. Castiel froze, alarmed gaze whipping between the two brothers. He wouldn’t be able to reach them both before someone’s throat got ripped out.

“Guess you two schmucks will be of use after all,” Magnus said. He pulled out two silver manacles etched with sigils from his suit jacket. A string of Latin whispered from his lips, and the cuffs shot forward to latch around Castiel’s wrists with a snap. The angel jerked and dropped to one knee.

“Cas!” Dean twitched as though to reach for him, but the hovering blade shifted to nick his throat.

Sam struggled futilely against the vampire’s super human strength.

“Now,” Magnus said, walking toward Castiel. “Let’s try this again.” He reached into his coat and pulled out one of Cas’s satin black feathers. “I believe I’ve found a way to make the binding more potent—and permanent.”


	9. A More Profound Bond

 

Castiel didn’t struggle as the vampire restrained him. It was filthy, blasphemous, degrading, for an angel to be subdued by such a lowly creature, but with the sigiled manacles around his wrists, his strength had been reduced to that of a mortal. Sam and Dean had been tied to two of the marble columns, bulky gold chains hooked around their elbows to hold them in place. The katana was no longer at Dean’s throat, discarded to lay on the floor at his feet, but Castiel knew that if he tried to fight, Magnus would kill the Winchesters. And Castiel didn’t have the power to save them.

The angel’s weakness left a bitter tang in the back of his throat. He couldn’t even look at Dean and Sam, though he heard their faint struggles against their restraints. He’d failed them. Every decision he’d made in order to help them always seemed to be too little too late.

Castiel had initially blamed the brothers for starting the Apocalypse, but it wasn’t the Winchesters’ fault; they’d been manipulated by Heavenly forces. No, it was Castiel who’d failed to warn Dean before he’d been sent back to Heaven. And then he’d taken too long to risk going against orders. If he had only acted sooner, Dean might have arrived at the church in time to stop Sam from raising Lucifer.

Castiel had been trying to redeem himself since, to make up for his failure. Yet here they were, the brothers in danger once more because Magnus was using them as leverage against Castiel. And as long as the Winchesters were being threatened, he would submit, if only for the minute chance the magician would release them after he finished his next spell.

“I realize where I went wrong the first time,” Magnus said conversationally, as though speaking to an audience of chemistry students. He’d retrieved a mortar and pestle from a small cabinet and was mixing the same ingredients from earlier. “The blood was only part angel, but also part of the vessel; I needed something of your true form.” He held up the obsidian feather, admiring the iridescent silver strands snaking through the vane. Then he dropped it into the bowl and ground it up.

Castiel tensed when Magnus cut his hand again and dribbled several drops into the mixture. The memory of that terrible chill stealing through his grace made Castiel’s heart beat erratically. To be undone and reshaped according to someone else’s intractable will was worse than the oblivion of death.

Magnus drew out the horribly familiar branding iron and dipped it in the black, viscous liquid. Castiel went rigid as the magician approached, eyes charged with anticipation. He had every confidence that this time his binding ritual would succeed—and Castiel had none that it wouldn’t.

“You sick bastard,” Dean shouted. “I’m going to kill you.”

Magnus rolled his eyes.

“Please.” Castiel’s voice came out small compared to his usual angelic command. “Let them go once you’ve finished.”

Magnus’s brow creased. “You really are a peculiar specimen.” At a word, the iron rune began to boil and glow like burning tar. A putrid stench of foul magic filled Castiel’s nose, and it took every ounce of will to hold still, to brace himself with the valor befitting an angel of the Lord.

Magnus lined up the smoldering rod with the brand already seared into his chest. Chains rattled as the Winchesters fought harder against their bonds, but the clanking metal was instantly drowned out when the brand touched Castiel’s skin.

The pain was twenty times worse this time, and so all-encompassing that he didn’t even have a chance to scream as a tidal wave of icy force overwhelmed every inch of him, crashing down over his true self in one complete deluge that snuffed out every sense of who he was.

When he opened his eyes, the world was a spectrum of gray shades, the only spark of life glowing from the figure standing in front of him. His body was a block of ice, stiff and numb. Physical sensations—sight, hearing, touch—were like faint, distant chimes.

“Yes.” The man’s voice resounded from every direction, amplified like the grin on his face.

_“Cas! Fight it!”_

That was another voice, one he perhaps recognized, but the thought was snatched out of his grasp before he could parse it out. There were other sounds, but they were muffled and unimportant. Magnus walked a full circle around him.

“Excellent. Now, show me your wings.”

Without a thought, the air shimmered as he brought his wings over from the ethereal plane.

_“You son-of-a-bitch.”_

Fingers ran between the plumage, stroking, pinching. There should have been something wrong with such actions, something violating about it. But such troubles were beyond his capacity anymore. Possibly, far back in the recesses of his body, he felt an echo of pain. Angel wings were sensitive. But he wouldn’t twitch or utter a sound of discomfort.

“Good,” the omnipresent voice boomed, vibrating through his bones. “You can put them away for now.”

The wings flickered and vanished.

“Well, the angel feather seems to have done the trick, though I must confess I do prefer a little of the personality to be leftover. I suppose this is the best I can hope for.”

_“Cas! Can you hear me?”_

_“Cas!”_

The outside voices were oddly desperate, tugging at something deep within him…he didn’t like the distressed notes, maybe even wanted to calm them. But the other voice, the cold, calculating resonance, flooded him and overrode the other noise.

“Hm,” Magnus hummed. “Perhaps a test is in order though. Just to be sure.”

A cold, cylindrical handle was placed in his hand, and a pressure on his shoulder turned him to the side to face two figures backed against stone pillars. A flicker of recognition flitted through him, but one of those icy tendrils snaked it away to evaporate like a wisp of smoke.

“Kill them.”

* * *

Dean stared at the angel blade in Cas’s hand, then at the flat, ghostly gray of his eyes. _No, no, no_ ; this could not be happening.

“Cas,” he said desperately. “You have to fight it.”

The angel gave no sign that he heard Dean. Not even a facial muscle twitched. Castiel’s normally intense, thoughtful expression was gone, wiped blank, leaving this catatonic drone staring into space. Then he took a stiff step forward.

Dean pushed against the chains, wincing as the links pinched his skin, but he couldn’t get them to loosen. Couldn’t do anything as his brainwashed friend slowly advanced.

“Cas, come on,” Sam pleaded.

Not a flicker of recognition or color registered in the angel’s eyes. The black brand on his chest gleamed like oil, slivers of gray occasionally running through the lines like active magic. Magnus had his fingers steepled under his chin, practically giddy as he watched.

“Sam?” Dean’s voice cracked, and he spared a panicked glance at his brother. What were they going to do? Sam struggled, face turning red with the exertion.

Castiel closed the distance, stopping in front of Dean first.

“Cas, snap out of it!” Those slate eyes bored through him. “I know you’re in there!”

Cas raised the blade, the tip glinting as it angled toward Dean’s throat.

Sam grunted. “Cas, don’t!”

The angel’s movements were painstakingly slow, as though he were slogging through a mire, yet there was no visible hesitation, no quiver through his shoulders as when he’d fought Magnus’s first command to reveal his wings. Dean frantically searched Castiel’s face for any sign that he was in there, but those dull eyes didn’t even blink. He felt as though he’d been punched in the gut. What if Cas was gone? What if all that was left was an empty shell?

No, dammit, he was not giving up on Cas. Not after everything. But how was he going to get through to him?

“You _can_ fight this, Cas. I know you can. You stood up to Zach and your dick brothers…You held off the archangel to buy me time to find Sam.” Okay, so Castiel had been killed, but he hadn’t stayed dead! And he’d beaten Magnus’s first attempt to “bind” him.

Dean squirmed under his chains. “Come on, Cas, not even Heaven’s re-education—or torture—kept you in line for long. You still came back.”

_God_ , _he needed Cas to come back._

But how were they going to break Magnus’s binding? Would cutting the brand work, like with demon binding ink? Not that Dean or Sam had anything to slice through their friend’s skin with.

“Cas,” Sam called. “We need you. Not because you’re an angel, but because you’re one of us. And Winchesters do not leave family behind.”

Was that a flicker of blue? Or a stupid reflection?

The angel blade shifted a fraction, and Dean realized Castiel’s sedate movements had stopped. Cas was like a sculpture, frozen in time as he was poised to slay Dean.

“You _are_ family, Cas,” Dean urged, searching, praying for a trace of blue to ignite those dead eyes. _“Family don’t end with blood.”_ In fact, it was stronger—stronger than biology, and stronger than a damn blood spell. It had to be.

Castiel’s rigid form didn’t move. If there was a battle being waged inside, Dean couldn’t detect it.

Magnus let out a long-winded sigh. “Get on with it already.”

The blade angled back to its primed position. Dean’s heart was jackhammering in his chest, and he could faintly hear his brother’s futile efforts to break free over the blood rushing in his ears. In desperation, Dean lashed out to grab Cas’s left wrist, hanging limply at his side. Castiel didn’t even react or attempt to pull away. He was like a rag doll, save for his unyielding sword arm, which was slowly descending toward Dean’s throat, as though he intended to just insert the blade through muscle and tissue as one would cut a cake.

Dean squeezed Cas’s wrist. “You pulled me out of Hell, remember?”

_“I’m the one who gripped you tight and raised you from perdition.”_

Sam sucked in a breath. “ _Dean_ , your scar!”

What? How the hell was mentioning the scar supposed to snap Cas out of it when nothing else had?

Sam was shooting him frantic, insistent looks, thrusting his chin toward Dean’s arm. His eyes widened as he caught on to Sam’s meaning. Would that even work? He whipped his gaze to Magnus. The man’s brow had quirked slightly, unable to read the brothers’ silent communication. Dean inhaled sharply.

_Please, God, if you ever gave a shit about anything, let this work._

Dean didn’t quite dare to hope the man upstairs was listening. But God _had_ brought Cas back from the dead. Because he cared about the one fallen angel out of all the others? Because the Winchesters needed Castiel and somehow that mattered? Well, it sure as hell mattered to Dean and Sam.

Dean returned his gaze to Cas’s, chest tightening at those cold, lackluster orbs. Castiel’s arm was slack in Dean’s grip, and it took little effort for him to pull the angel’s hand up and slap it against the handprint scar on his shoulder.

The mark was larger than Jimmy’s hand, but the moment Cas’s fingers aligned with the scar, Dean felt a zing sizzle down his skin. It was only mildly painful, like the buzzing of needles after cutting off circulation to a limb for so much time. But he also felt the lash of fire that shot from the handprint and plunged into Castiel. The angel flinched as though being electrocuted. Dean refused to let go, not even when Cas’s features contorted in pain. With one last burst of energy, the gray in his eyes shattered like glass marbles, giving way to a splash of blue before they rolled back and Cas crumpled at Dean’s feet.

“Cas!” Oh shit, please had he not just killed his best friend.

Castiel lay sprawled on the floor, and Dean’s gaze latched onto the binding sigil on his chest, which was beginning to melt like wax, inky tendrils snaking down to stain Jimmy’s shirt.

Dean threw his brother a half-bewildered, half-triumphant look. _Good job, Sammy!_ He couldn’t believe that had actually worked.

They weren’t out of the woods though.

Magnus was gaping at them. “But…the spell was perfect!” He marched forward and grabbed a fistful of Dean’s shirt, knocking him back against the column. “ _How_? How could you uncouth barbarians simply _break_ a binding?” He glanced down at the treacly rivulets, now nothing more than a smear around blistered flesh.

Dean clenched a fist, wishing he had the freedom of movement to slug the magician. “Yeah, well, you picked the wrong angel to mess with.”

Magnus shook his head. “There must be something wrong with him. Tarnished wings, that’s it.” He let out a disgusted noise and moved away.

“There’s something wrong with _you_ ,” Sam spat.

Magnus skewered them both with a baleful glare. “I think it’s time I let my creatures have a little treat. They don’t often get fresh blood.” He nodded to the vampire, who pulled his lips back and protracted his fangs.

Dean pushed against his bonds again. _Now would be a good time to wake up, Cas…_

A loud pop split the air and the vampire dropped, followed by a second report. Magnus jerked as a hole appeared in his head, blood and brain matter spewing through the air. He swayed slightly before toppling to the side. Dean shot his gaze to Sam, but his brother was still tied to the column. Sam’s flummoxed expression suddenly pinched at something to Dean’s right. He whipped his head around to find Crowley standing next to the Egyptian jackal, the Colt smoking in his hand.

The demon tilted his head in mild interest at the dead magician, and then grinned at the Winchesters. “Hallo, boys.”


	10. All Together Now

 

Sam stared dumbly at Crowley, trying to form a coherent thought. The demon had the Colt in his hand, and Magnus was dead on the floor by one of the gun’s supernatural bullets. So was the vampire. As blood pooled around Magnus’s head, the wall behind Crowley wobbled and was replaced with the broken doors once more.

The demon arched a brow over his shoulder. “Hm, that’s a nice trick.”

“I thought you left,” Sam blurted.

Crowley’s mouth twitched smugly. “Yes, well, I’m full of surprises.” He ran his gaze over the Winchesters, and Sam stiffened as he realized he and Dean were still chained to the marble columns and Cas was still unconscious.

Crowley scrutinized them for a long moment before smirking and snapping his fingers. The chains fell away, landing with a clunk on the floor. Sam rubbed his arms to relieve the tingling where his circulation had been pinched. He eyed Crowley warily. With the way the demon swung back and forth between helping them and not helping them, Sam had no idea what to expect.

Dean slowly bent down to check on Cas, and after pressing his fingers to the angel’s neck for a pulse, stood again. He cleared his throat. “Well, it took you long enough.”

“You’re welcome.” Crowley cocked his head to admire the Colt before tossing it to Sam, who fumbled to catch it. “There, now you have what you need to hunt the Devil.”

Sam turned the gun over in his hands, angling a sidelong look at Dean. His older brother’s expression was a stoic mask. _Don’t telegraph your next move to the enemy._ Curling his finger around the trigger, Sam raised the barrel at Crowley and squeezed. The Colt made the soft click of an empty chamber. _Shit._

Crowley slipped his hands into his pockets, pursing his lips. “Right, you’ll need more bullets.” With that, he turned and nonchalantly strode out of the room.

Sam and Dean shifted awkwardly, but there was nothing they could do about Crowley for the moment, so they turned their attention to the downed angel.

“How’d you know the scar would break the binding, Sam?” Dean asked as he knelt beside Cas.

“I didn’t.” Sam sunk to one knee on Castiel’s other side, putting a hand on his shoulder. He was relieved to see the steady rise and fall of the angel’s chest. “But Magnus said he was binding their essences together, and how he needed part of Cas’s true form—like one of his feathers. Then when you mentioned Hell, I remembered the scar Cas gave you, and he was in his true form then, right?”

Dean arched his brows impatiently. “Yeah, but I still don’t see how you thought it would do anything.”

Sam rolled his shoulders uncomfortably, knowing his brother probably wasn’t going to like his theory. “Well, Magnus was using his blood and Cas’s feather to create a physical link…basically scarring him with that brand. I was just hoping that the connection he has with you would be stronger, because it’s more than a superficial mark.” He shrugged helplessly. “It really was a Hail Mary kind of epiphany.”

Dean just gaped at him, a muscle in his cheek twitching as he digested all of that. After a long moment, he swallowed hard. “Well, you’re definitely a nerd. But next round of beers is on me.” Shrugging off his self-consciousness, Dean gently shook Cas’s shoulder. “Cas, you in there?”

Castiel’s eyelids fluttered and slowly opened, and Sam let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Cas’s eyes were a completely vibrant blue, no trace of gray.

Dean smiled. “Hey, Cas.”

“Dean?” He tried to lift his head, and both brothers looped an arm under his to help him sit up. “Sam?”

“Yeah, how are you feeling?” Sam peeled a bit of sticky shirt away from Cas’s chest to inspect the brand. The patterned seal was ruined; not a single thick line of it remained under the dripping sludge. Castiel’s flesh was still burned around the area, and Sam hoped he’d be able to heal it soon. With a start, he remembered the sigiled manacles around the angel’s wrists. They were probably blocking his healing powers.

“I…” Cas swept his gaze around the room, and his features tightened when he settled on Magnus. “I’m fine,” he said gruffly.

Sam wasn’t sure he believed that, but he’d take an obstinate Cas over a brainwashed one any day. He twisted around to search Magnus’s pockets and pulled out a clunky key he hoped fit the shackles.

“You remember what happened?” Dean asked.

Castiel dropped his gaze to his hands, watching intently as Sam inserted the key into one of the manacles.

“Cas?”

“Yes,” he said quietly. “I remember.”

Dean huffed. “Good. Don’t you ever do that again.”

Castiel seemed to curl in on himself. “I’m sorry, Dean. I would never hurt you or Sam. I…” His voice wavered, and Sam shot his brother a pointed look.

Dean blinked. “What? I’m talking about offering to trade yourself for us and a stupid gun.”

Castiel glanced up, cocking his head as though Dean had just made one of his enigmatic, pop culture references. “The Colt is not just any gun; you need it to kill Lucifer. Plus, we were trapped, and I’d hoped Magnus would have found it an equitable trade.”

Sam shook his head as he unlocked the last manacle. The silver metal clattered to the floor and he tossed the pieces into the blazing hearth where they fractured a log with a sharp crackle.

Dean ran a hand over his hair. “We need you more. Dammit, Cas. This family’s done enough sacrificing ourselves for each other.”

The angel’s brow furrowed further.

Sam sighed. Either Cas didn’t remember their pleas to him when he’d been under Magnus’s control, or he still didn’t understand. “Honestly, Cas, you don’t think you’re part of that family now?”

If possible, the angel looked even more confused, and a little broken. “I tried to kill you,” he ground out, avoiding their eyes. “For an angel to be compromised like that…for _me_ to be compromised… You can no longer trust me.”

Dean snorted.

“Cas, this wasn’t your fault,” Sam pressed, trying to make him understand; there was no way he or Dean would ever blame him for what had just happened. “You held out against Magnus a good long while. He couldn’t even make the first binding stick!”

“Because he didn’t have the correct ingredients.”

Dean scowled. “No, because you’re one tough son-of-a-bitch.”

“Not strong enough,” the angel said bitterly.

“Hey, we’ve all been there,” Sam said. “Last year Dean and I got bespelled by a siren and almost killed each other. So, heh, welcome to the club.”

Cas frowned. “It doesn’t seem like a good club.”

Dean let out a stifled laugh. “Look, Cas, you remember what happened, so you must remember all those things Sam and I said to you?” He tilted his head forward to catch the angel’s eyes, waiting like that until Cas finally met his gaze.

After a moment of staring, Cas nodded reluctantly. “It was…distant.” His expression contorted as he tried to parse it out. “Like one of your dreams. But yes, I remember…what you said.”

“Well, we weren’t spouting a bunch of bunk just to get you to stop; we meant every word.”

The perplexed look on Castiel’s face made Sam’s chest hurt. “You’re like a brother to us, Cas, whether you like it or not.” Sure, the guy had thousands of brothers and sisters in Heaven, but Sam had seen how they treated each other. He squeezed the angel’s arm. “ _No matter_ what.”

Castiel seemed to sag as some invisible weight left his shoulders. “Thank you Sam, Dean.”

Dean clapped Castiel on the back. “Good, now let’s get out of here. I’ve had my fill of zoos.” He and Sam helped pull Cas to his feet. Though not as weak as when they’d freed him from the dungeon, he wasn’t back to his normal self, and Sam wanted to perform some proper care for that burn as soon as possible.

They made it out into the hall when Crowley reappeared. “Ah, so you got your angel back too. The box of bullets is waiting outside. No offense, but I think we all know where we stand on trust. Good luck killing Lucifer.” The crossroads demon strolled into the den and started tutting over various antiquities.

“Thanks for the new digs, by the way.” Crowley flicked a dismissive hand, and the broken doors slammed shut with a resounding thud.

Sam shot his brother a baffled look. A muscle in Dean’s jaw ticked, but he jerked his head for them to get moving, and with Castiel supported between them, they made their way out of the mansion.

The box of bullets was on the front step, just as Crowley had said, and Dean paused to snatch it up.

“Dean, do you really think it’s a good idea to leave Crowley with the largest collection of supernatural items and _weapons_?”

“No, Sam, I think it’s a terrible idea, but what choice do we have? And frankly, we have bigger fish to fry.”

As they moved further from the mansion, the brick walls coruscated with golden light that gradually folded in on itself like undulating silk. Eventually, nothing was left but an apparently barren field.

They made it back to the Impala, and the boys eased Cas into the backseat. Leaving the door wide open, Sam knelt in front of the angel while Dean retrieved the first aid kit from the trunk. Sam doused a handkerchief in water, and eyed the red and charred flesh before he began wiping the black ooze away from the burn.

“Your healing going to kick in soon?”

Castiel watched curiously, though the lines around his eyes tightened in what Sam guessed was pain. “I’m…not sure.”

“Maybe we should purify the wound with holy water.” Sam angled his head up to look at Dean, who was hovering over his shoulder. “What do you think?”

“Couldn’t hurt.” He went to get some from the trunk.

“If you’re worried about the binding seal,” Castiel said. “It has been broken, plus Magnus is dead. I’m in control of myself again.”

Sam smiled. “I know, Cas. I’m more worried about some kind of supernatural infection or poison. That was some ugly magic.”

Castiel didn’t have anything to say to that. Dean handed Sam a flask of holy water, and he carefully tipped the opening over the burn. He braced himself for the liquid to bubble or foam, even though there hadn’t been anything demonic in Magnus’s spell, and was relieved when nothing happened, except to dilute more of the melting blood ink. Sam wiped the last of it away, and then spread some burn cream over the area before taping a square piece of gauze over it.

Dean pointed out a cut on Castiel’s arm, so Sam checked that next. It didn’t look like it was healing either. Was that because of the binding spell’s effects? Or did it have something to do with him falling? Sam hadn’t forgotten what Cas said when he’d tried to negotiate with Magnus. He already knew Castiel was cut off from Heaven and couldn’t do certain things anymore, like heal people, but what happened if eventually he couldn’t heal himself either? Sam figured that’d be a hard pill for the angel to swallow, but hopefully he’d let Sam and Dean be there for him. And in the meantime, he just hoped Cas only needed to recharge his batteries.

Sam cleaned the laceration, which he determined didn’t need stitches, applied some antiseptic, and then wrapped it in a bandage. “Finished.”

Castiel moved as though to climb out of the car.

“Whoa, where are you going?”

He quirked a brow. “If you’re finished, shouldn’t I go?”

Dean stepped closer to Sam as though to physically block Castiel’s escape. “No, I want you to stay right here, you got it?”

Castiel tilted his head up and blinked owlishly. “Why?”

Dean opened his mouth, and then shut it with an eye roll. “Just, humor me, okay?”

Castiel eased back into the seat. “Alright.” Though he sounded mildly put out, Sam thought he saw a flicker of relief in Cas’s eyes.

“What about when Magnus pulled out your feathers, Cas?” Sam asked hesitantly. He had no idea how to perform first aid on invisible angel wings.

Cas rolled his shoulders, making Sam wonder just where those wings were at the moment. There certainly couldn’t be enough room in the back of the Impala.

“It’s not serious, and will mend.”

Sam would just have to take his word for it. He gathered up the first aid supplies and stood, prepared to return the kit to the trunk, but found Dean still crammed near his shoulder and lingering over the back door, shifting his weight as though uncomfortable.

“Cas, listen, about your wings…I didn’t know, man. I’m sorry.”

Castiel frowned. “What about them?”

“That they got ruined when you rescued me from Hell.”

Sam swallowed a sound of surprise. Yeah, that had been one shocking revelation he’d almost forgotten about. He politely ducked his gaze so Dean wouldn’t have to endure his sympathetic staring, but cast a furtive glance at Cas.

Castiel studied Dean. “I suppose we both have scars to bear. But I do not regret my actions.” He paused. “Any of them.”

“Still, Cas, you’ve given up so much for us. It’s hardly fair.”

Cas’s brows knit together, gaze drifting down. After another prolonged moment, he lifted his eyes, and there was a renewed vigor in them. “I believe…” he said slowly, as though testing the words. “That is what family does.”

Dean looked taken aback, and then let out a small chuckle, clasping Cas on the shoulder. “Yeah, that’s we do.”

Sam couldn’t help but grin. So they were an odd, dysfunctional trio—two hunters and a fallen angel. But they were family. And together they could handle anything.

Dean cleared his throat, breaking the moment. “Okay then. Let’s go ice the Devil.”

* * *

Crowley leaned back in a luxurious leather sofa and propped his legs up on a matching footrest. He swirled a bit of merlot in a wine glass before tasting the smoky vintage enriched with black cherry fruit. The demon smacked his lips in pleasure. He roved his gaze over the gallery he was reclining in—one of many in Magnus’s mansion—noting each piece of exquisite art and relics. He couldn’t wait to go through it all. And thanks to the Winchesters, Crowley now had all the time in the world to do so. He was safely tucked away in an invisible fortress, out of Lucifer’s reach, with a storehouse of supernatural weapons and artifacts. His own little kingdom.

He needed to clear out the “zoo” occupants first, and convert the space to a working torture chamber. He felt mild regret that Magnus wouldn’t be the first to enjoy a stay there, but the magician was just too unpredictable to have let live.

As were the Winchesters, Crowley had to admit. They had the potential to be tenacious little thorns in his side, but only if they managed to survive killing the Devil. Which, honestly, was a long shot to begin with. So Crowley wasn’t worried at the moment. He drained his merlot and rose to his feet.

Time to play with his new toys.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay for Team Free Will! And, er, Crowley? 0_o I honestly have no idea how he managed to hijack the ending, lol.


End file.
